


The Long Game

by Secrethomeworkassignment



Series: The Big One [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dad Fenris, Family Feels, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, also some adult content, and definitely adult language, content warning for discussions of slavery and intense social violence, cw pregnancy and birth, dad cullen, general adult themes, long fic, tevinter uprising, this is about to get really involved guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-10-20 19:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20680460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secrethomeworkassignment/pseuds/Secrethomeworkassignment
Summary: An opportunity arises for Fenris five years after his wife's death





	1. Kirkwall

**Author's Note:**

> Here begins my sprawling post Inquisition tale of intrigue and questionable continuity. Bear with me, guys <3

Five years had passed since a light had gone out in the old Amell estate. Four since Fenris Hawke had finally held funeral rites for his wife. With no body to burn, they had draped a cedar log with Marian’s clothes and burned that instead, after the Marcher custom for sailors lost at sea.

Nearly every night after putting Willow to bed, Fenris went out to the garden and watched the stars come out over the bay. That was his time to remember. Sometimes in the garden at nightfall he felt he could almost hear her laughter carried on the wind, almost smell her tobacco smoke and earthy perfume.

Their daughter was nine winters old now. She was growing up thoughtful and curious and smart as a whip. Just like her mother, Thought Fenris with a smile. The mageling’s education had become an almost full-time pursuit. He had recently started giving her basic quarter-staff lessons, for it was his philosophy that you’re never too young to learn to defend yourself. He had taught her her letters as well, but he had wisely decided to leave the magic to the mages.

Fenris had been a great believer in the necessity of the circles before they fell, but now that the mage in question was his own little girl he knew that no argument in the world, however rational, would convince him to send her away. Merrill had some unorthodox beliefs, to be sure, but the Dalish taught their mages diligently. Merrill knew, probably better than any circle trained mage, how to wield magic with intention and keep the demons at bay- when she wasn’t inviting them in for tea, of course. Besides, Fenris was happy to let Willow spend as much time with Merrill and Isabela as possible. Theirs was a happy home, full of laughter and warmth. Willow was growing up too serious for Fenris’s liking and he feared it was from watching him.

“That's all for now, Willow” said Fenris, dismissing his daughter from her lesson. “Ask Merrill if there's anything she would like you to read for tomorrow. Oranna will make you something to eat.”

The raven haired girl, ever conscientious in her filial duty, bid Fenris farewell with a slight bow. “Thank you, father.”

Fenris stopped her with a hand on her shoulder before she went inside. He had a bad habit of only speaking up to correct her, as Merrill had pointed out, and he wished to amend this behavior before his only child started to think of him as a tyrant.

“Will- you did very well today. I couldn't be more pleased with your progress.”

Willow’s proud smile melted his heart like a candle on a wax seal. “Thank you, father.”

Fenris sat in the courtyard garden that he had tried faithfully to keep from going to seed since Hawke’s death. He had partially succeeded, the plants were happy at least, but they had broken free from the bondage of their neat rows and run absolutely riot. The courtyard was mostly theirs now, apart from the stone terrace where he and Willow were training.

He reflected that despite the dull ache of loss he knew would never truly leave him, he was in many ways fortunate.

When he was first told that Hawke had fallen in the battle against Corypheaus, his grief had been unbearable. He truly felt that not just Hawke, but the whole world had been swallowed up by the Fade. He would not have believed it then if someone had told him that it would get better with time, but over the years the grief had softened into something almost comfortable. Their years together had been few, but happy, and for that he was grateful. He had friends, a home in the city he had come to love, and a fulfilling way to earn his coin since Aveline had hired him as a sort of specialist in halting the flow of slaves into Tevinter and “apprehending” slave hunters. Most of all, he had the center of his world, his daughter- such a good child, but he hoped a happy one as well.

His introspection was broken by the snap of a twig. He turned toward the sound to see a red head with two long ears peeking up over the garden gate. Tomwise stuck his arm over the fence, waving an envelope in his hand.

“Hey Brother. Letter for you.”

Fenris approached the gate and snatched the letter from his friend’s outstretched hand. “Who from?” he asked, fully expecting the nosy bastard to know.

Tomwise winked before disappearing back into the alley. “You think I read your mail?”

The broken seal read VT. Fenris eagerly pulled the letter open. He hadn’t heard much from Varric these last five years.

"Fenris,

There's something you should know. I would have told you sooner, but I didn’t think you were ready to hear it. The Inquisition owes you. Before Hawke died she made the Inquisitor swear she would help you take on Tevinter. Now that we've sent Corypheus back to the void, the Inquisition is looking for its next move. If you're ready to call in that favor, now would be the time. I'm hope you're taking care of yourself.

Your friend, Varric"

Fenris stared at the letter, locked in place as if time itself had stopped.

He had kept it alive in the back of his mind for years- an ever changing, highly improbable plan to free his people once and for all…

Sending the occasional slaver to the Void was like using a rag to staunch the blood flowing from a wound. He had always wondered if there was a way to close the wound for good. He kept waiting for someone else to do it, expecting a hero to rise up out of the ranks of the thousands upon thousands of Tevinter slaves, but apart from rumors of small, individual uprisings handily crushed by the Imperial machine, it had yet to happen.

...

Fenris had stuffed the few items of winter clothing he had into a small pack and walked Willow to Aveline and Donnic’s house on the edge of Lowtown. Willow had been happy to see their sons Collum and Finn, and Fenris was grateful that the anticipation of playing with her friends had, for the moment, distracted her from his departure. He squatted down on his heels so he was eye level with the girl and took her little face in both his hands. 

“I want you to listen to Aveline and Donnic while I’m gone. Don’t go giving them any trouble. And that goes double for Merrill- don’t think I won’t know if you shirk your lessons. I have spies everywhere.”

Willow sighed somewhat impatiently. “Yes, father.”

“A bit less of the cheek this time, please” replied Fenris, imitating a much used phrase of Hawke’s.

This time Willow smiled, happy to hear him say something that reminded her of her ma. “Yes, father.” 

“Alright, be good” said Fenris before kissing the top of her dark head. 

“You too,” she replied solemnly. 

It was an effort to pull himself away, but he managed, and he watched from the shadows as his child chased one of the Hendyr boys into the brightly lit house, giddy with laughter, before disappearing into the night. 


	2. Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris makes his case to the Inquisition and Inquisitor Grace Trevelyan is faced with a decision. Dorian has some introspecting to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long one folks! This chapter contains a section that I posted as a stand alone Dorian/Bull story called An Overture. That's at the very end, so if you've read An Overture and want to skip the review, the option is there. Thank you for reading <3

Skyhold was snowbound, but the Herald’s Rest was warm with packed in bodies and the heat coming off the kitchen and raucous with drunken laughter. Inquisitor Grace Trevelyan sat between her General and her attache to the Imperium, devouring a roast chicken with as much delicacy as her rumbling stomach would allow.

Outside the castle walls a hooded figure trekked resolutely through the heavy snow.

“Who goes there?” called a guard from the gatehouse window into the soundless expanse of snow.

“A friend of the Inquisition,” Fenris called back.

The guard, finding this premise a bit thin, hesitated before drawing up the gate.

“You got someone to vouch for that, friend?”

“Varric Tethras” answered Fenris. “He's expecting me.”

The guards escorted Fenris into the gatehouse where he could at least take shelter from the biting wind. One guard set off to fetch Varric. Fenris gratefully warmed his hands by the small fire, noting the fascination with which the remaining guard stared at the lyrium markings when he pulled back his cloak. It used to raise his hackles when people stared, but somewhere along the way he had grown used to it. The guard quickly looked away, embarrassed, when Fenris met his gaze.

Outside the guard approached one of his comrades in the courtyard.

“Oi, Jim, you seen Master Tethras? He's got a visitor.”

“The lot of them are having a piss-up at the Rest. Tethras should be there.”

The guard entered the tavern and quickly spotted his Lady seated at the high table with her dwarven companion close at hand.

“Evening Inquisitor. Commander. Master Tethras, you have a visitor at the gate.”

Varric looked surprised. He couldn't think of anyone he was expecting offhand.

“A visitor? For me?” he asked.

“Yessir” the guard answered dutifully.

Varric shrugged. “Well I'll be damned.”

Grace gave him an insinuating little smile. “Bianca, perhaps?”

“It could be anyone,” Varric replied with a winning grin. “I'm a man of the people, beloved by all.”

The guard coughed softly. “Master Tethras, he didn't seem keen on waiting.”

Varric entered the gatehouse and let out a great sigh of relief at the sight of the man warming himself by the fire.

Fenris looked up at his old friend. “Well met, Varric.”

In truth, Varric hadn’t expected Fenris to come when he sent the letter. He hadn’t really even expected a reply. He strode across the gatehouse to grasp Fenris’s arms and pull him into a hearty embrace.

...

The denizens of the Herald’s Rest halted their conversation and looked up from their supper to examine the stranger as Varric and Fenris entered the tavern. Fenris followed Varric to where the Inquisitor was dining with her senior staff.

“Inquisitor, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Fenris, Grace Trevelyan- leader of the victorious Inquisition. Grace, Fenris.”

The Inquisitor rose abruptly to her feet, or at least tried to, impeded somewhat by her enormous pregnant belly.

She was still a young woman, perhaps in her early thirties, and she was indeed lovely, as had been reported ad nauseam by the bards and Orlesian gossip pamphlets that sometimes made their way up at Kirkwall. She was tall and slender, fair skinned with her auburn hair tied back in a long, loose braid. Fenris noticed that her left arm had been severed at the elbow and she had the sleeve of her jacket pinned neatly over the stump. Fenris was no expert on pregnancy, but he had seen Hawke through the birth of their own daughter, and the Inquisitor looked to him as if she could deliver at any moment.

A slightly older man with thick, curly hair and a scar above his lip rose and took her under the arm to help steady her. After a moment of confusion, the rest of her companions likewise stood. Grace stepped out from the table to lift Fenris’s hand in what was considered a formal Tevinter greeting.

“Lord Hawke. You do me a great honor.”

Fenris inclined his head in a respectful bow. “The honor is mine, My Lady. I have heard tales of your courage, both on and off the field.”

Grace beckoned to a passing barmaid. “Elsa, please bring our guest a hot meal and something to drink. Fenris, make yourself at home. Allow me to introduce my companions.”

One by one, the senior staff of the Inquisition shuffled around their chairs and reached across the table to greet him.

“Cullen Rutherford- Commander of the Inquisition’s armies.”

Cullen grasped Fenris’s hand firmly. “We’ve met,” said the Commander with a smile. “But it is a pleasure to see you again, Fenris.”

“Cassandra Pentaghast, formerly of the Sacred Order of Seekers and current Right Hand of Divine Victoria.”

Cassandra bowed stiffly. “An honor, my lord.”

Grace placed her hand on the shoulder of an enormous Qunari. “And this is our most grievously underpaid mercenary, the Iron Bull.”

“Shanedan,” said Fenris, hoping his accent had held up over the years.

Iron Bull grinned, clearly flattered by the effort. “Shanedan, basalit-an. I've heard a lot about you” he said, taking Fenris’s hand in a vice-like grip.

Grace gestured toward a beautiful dark-haired woman and a well appointed man in a exquisitely tailored velvet robe. “Our esteemed ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet... And Lord Dorian of House Pavus.”

Dorian was frowning at him as if trying to pin down a recollection.

“I swear know you…” mused Dorian as he raised Fenris’s hand. “Those markings are quite unique.” Fenris was certain his new acquaintance was Tevinter, and he didn’t like where this was going.

It suddenly dawned on Dorian where he had seen Fenris before and his expression shifted from uncertain to frankly starstruck.

“Yes, that’s right! By the Black Divine, you’re the Little Wolf! Why, I’ve seen you in the arena four, maybe five times. I will never in my life forget watching you take on three Qunari spearmen by yourself, it was extraordinary! You moved through them like a ghost. You, my friend, are an artist. I suppose you finally earned your freedom, then? A man of valor such as yourself, it was only a matter of time…”

Fenris regarded him in stony silence. The Inquisitor coughed. Dorian, usually so adept at reading social situations, was the last to realize his misstep. He frowned, embarrassed and confused.

“I apologize if I’ve said something amiss... Perhaps I misunderstood. I'm sure it's more complicated than I-”

Grace interrupted with a soft cough. “Fenris, perhaps I could show you to your room while your supper is being prepared?”

“That would be fantastic,” Fenris answered dryly. He was more than happy for an excuse to leave Magister Pavus’s presence, but as Grace stepped awkwardly out from the table he glanced skeptically at her swollen belly. “I do not wish to make you get up-” he protested, but Grace waved him off.

“Please, it's good for me.”

Varric, Grace and Fenris conversed softly as they climbed the ramparts, steadily, albeit slowly, to the guest tower. There was much to discuss, and the Herald’s Rest was hardly the place.

“Fenris, I can't tell you how glad I am that you came,” said Varric. “I was beginning to worry you hadn't got my letter.”

“I'm sorry, friend. I seem to have acquired responsibilities in Kirkwall that demand my constant attention.”

“Sending slavers to the void?” asked Varric with a knowing smile.

Fenris chuckled. “For one. But there are other goals as well. I've been working with former slaves in Darktown, trying to build up a base of support for runaways, finding out who still has family in Tevinter with an aim toward arranging their escape. And of course there's the mageling's education. It's a busy life.”

Varric looked up at him, impressed. “Andraste's ass, Fenris. Where'd you come up with all these fucks to give? The man I used to know barely had enough to keep him warm.”

“Hawke... was a source of great encouragement for me. She still is.”

They were all quiet for a moment before Grace spoke up.

“Forgive me, Fenris- I’m glad you’re here, but I am aware that this isn’t a social call. I swore an oath to Hawke, and I intend to keep it. She said you’d… need our help. So tell me, what am I in for?”

Fenris was well prepared for this question. “Assemble your people tomorrow morning and I’ll make my case. Suffice it to say that the time has long passed when anyone can turn a blind eye to the hundreds of thousands of slaves who suffer under the Imperium and to claim to speak for the Maker.”

Grace sucked in her breath and released it with resolute little laugh. “I see. I’ll look forward to hearing how you propose to remedy the situation.”

Fenris smiled wolfishly. His arrival at Skyhold had rekindled a fire in him that the years had nearly extinguished. “I’ll look forward to telling you.”

Grace opened the door to a tower room, simply furnished but warm and comfortable. “Here we are. It’s late, and you must be tired. Would you prefer to have your food sent up to you?”

“Yes, thank you.” Fenris answered. He stopped the Inquisitor before she turned to leave. He didn’t know quite how to ask this. “I’m sorry, is this- I assume you have many guest chambers here at Skyhold?”

Grace looked from Fenris to Varric, confused. But Varric caught his meaning and nodded.

“Yeah, buddy. This is where she stayed. I couldn’t… I don’t know, grab a game of wicked grace with you tomorrow or something, could I? For old times’ sake?”

Fenris smiled. “You don’t have to ask me twice to take your money. Goodnight, Inquisitor.”

“Till the morning.”

...

He sat on the feather bed, looking around at the last room she had stayed in, trying to feel some vestige of her presence. Talking with Varric and the Inquisitor he had felt so sure of himself, but now that he was alone doubt was starting to creep in. He spoke to her, as he often did when he was by himself.

“Oh, Hawke, what am I doing here? I’ll never talk them into marching on Tevinter. It would be madness… Slavery in the Imperium has always been, and I fear it always will be. Who am I trying to fool, I’m not Shartan. Whatever deal you made, Hawke, it wasn’t worth it. Nothing could be worth your life.”

When he drifted off to sleep he slept soundly, and his dreams were sweet. In his dream, she was there with him.

Fenris holds out his hand. Hawke touches the tips of his fingers.

“Please let me hold you,” he whispers.

She brushes the hair from his face. “No, amatus. You can’t stay here. You have so much to do.”

“Just for a while,” he murmurs, drawing her toward him, but she pulls away.

“You have to wake up, Fenris. Wake up.”

Fenris opened his eyes. It was a lovely, clear morning in Skyhold.

…

The tension in the room was palpable as Fenris stood before the leaders of the Inquisition. They were all seated around the war table- a massive structure hewn from the trunk of a great oak tree. General Cullen, Ambassador Josephine, Dorian, Varric, Morrigan the Witch, and the Iron Bull were all present, as well as the Right Hand of the Divine.

Grace felt very fortunate that Cassandra had happened to chose this moment to take a break from her duties in Val Royeaux- her advice in this matter would be indispensable.

Sunbeams filtered in and reflected off the dust motes that swirled lazily around the large stone chamber. There was some nervous shifting, but none of the cheerful small talk that usually began their meetings.

When everyone had finally settled, Fenris spoke.

“I have no skill for making speeches, so I will be brief and to the point. The Inquisition has shown itself to be a force for good, one that stands up for the common folk. I understand your ranks are fewer since the war against Corypheus was won, but with the full weight of the Chantry and Divine Victoria behind you, you are more powerful than ever.

There is an evil that has been allowed to fester for far too long. I speak of the thousands of souls who suffer in bondage in the Tevinter Imperium. Make no mistake, there is no benevolent guardianship of master over slave as the magisters would have you believe. Generations are held captive with no hope of ever tasting freedom. Elves, men, and Qunari alike are stolen from the streets of Val Royeaux and Denerim, ripped from the shores of Seheron and Rivain to live and die at the pleasure of the highest bidder. The teeming poor of Minrathous are even forced to sell themselves and their own children to pay their debts. Many are put to work in factories and mines to toil for the great Imperial machine until they are exhausted and die. Tevinter science is advanced by conducting gruesome experiments on enslaved subjects such as the one that has left its mark on me.

This cannot go on, but never before has there been a force with the resources or the will to stop it. And then, the Inquisition rose out of nothing to bring about peace between templar and mage and defeat the madman Corypheus. It was truly as if you carried the blessing of the Maker himself.”

Fenris fixed his eyes directly on Grace.

“If that is true, Inquisitor, surely you cannot turn a blind eye to the suffering of my people. I am asking you in the Maker’s name to help us.”

Grace, having had an idea of what Fenris would say, sat quietly considering is words. “You mean an Exalted March?” she asked.

Fenris nodded. “That is my meaning.”

Silence reigned for a moment before Grace made her reply.

“An Exalted March is a great undertaking. And, I fear, a bloody one. Yet the righteousness of your cause cannot be denied.”

Fenris breathed an audible sigh of relief.

“I will need some time to discuss the matter with my advisers, and ultimately the decision will lie with Divine Victoria, but the Inquisition is prepared to consider your request.”

As the assembled members of the Inquisition left the war room only one man remained.

Dorian stayed fixed in place, his face ashen, wondering if his beloved friend, the woman he had thought of a sister all these years, had just issued a decree of execution for everything that he held dear.  
…

When everyone had dispersed, Grace and Cullen made their way into the garden where the night’s snow was beginning to melt in the mid afternoon sun. The deep crease between Cullen’s eyebrows, permanent at this point, was even more pronounced than usual as he mulled over what they had just heard. Grace looped her arm through his with a comforting squeeze. Cullen rubbed his temples, speaking low so that only she could hear him.

“Maker, but I thought we were done with all this” he sighed. “I would ask if you’re actually considering this madness, but I fear I know the answer.”

Grace pursed her lips and looked at Cullen, the apology written on her face. “I am considering. I have not decided.”

“Why, because you made a promise to Hawke? That’s a lot of lives that will be lost just to keep an oath.”

“It’s not the oath.”

They carefully climbed the steps to the ramparts, the glittering white valley spread out before them.

“I did a brazen thing when I claimed to speak for the Maker. Now those promises are coming home to roost.”

Cullen gazed at the woman who would soon be the mother of his child, Just a delicate slip of a girl, but on the inside she was an immovable force. He knew she often struggled with doubt over whether Andraste had truly chosen her, but he never had. He was more certain every day.

Grace looked out over the Frostback mountains. “You’re right though. An Exalted March on the Imperium would be a bloodbath.” To do what Fenris asked could either make her the enabling force behind a great liberator or the warmongering tyrant she always feared she might become.

Grace turned to Cullen and caressed his bristly cheek. “There is much to consider before a decision is reached. Nothing will be done without counsel, and ultimately it will be Leliana’s decision.”

Suddenly a realization dawned on her. “Oh Maker, Dorian… I should speak to him. I can’t imagine what he must be thinking.”

...

The meeting had not gone well. Dorian sat, dejected, at a table in the Herald’s Rest with his head in his hands, a half empty wine bottle and two glasses before him. Fenris hadn’t even touched his. Dorian thought halfheartedly that it would be a shame to waste such a good vintage, and poured the undisturbed contents into his own now empty glass. He was just resolving to pull himself together and find something productive to do when the Iron Bull came striding in. Dorian groaned. He thought maybe if he kept very still he could hide in plain sight, but alas, fortune had abandoned him this day. Bull pulled out the chair across from him and hunkered down.

“You alright there, Vint?” asked Bull, eyeing the two glasses and taking an experimental swig from Dorian’s.

Dorian glowered at him. The giant brute hadn’t the slightest respect for the concept of personal space. Dorian was suspicious of the Bull’s motives- he didn’t think he could tolerate a ribbing right now- but he did need someone to process with, and well… Bull was there. He sighed.

“Fenris really put me through the wringer. I didn’t think it would be an easy conversation, but he wouldn’t even hear me out.” Dorian rubbed his eyes wearily. “And the worst part is he’s right, of course. About everything.”

Bull frowned. “And what exactly did you expect to get out of that little talk?”

Dorian had given up, accepted that Bull was going to help himself to the rest of his wine, and pushed his glass in the Qunari’s direction.

“He asked the Inquisitor for an Exalted March, for fuck's sake. I was hoping to convince him that it doesn’t have to be that way. Give me a little time, and I could bring the issue of slavery before the Senate. You might be surprised how many magisters would vote in favor of abolition with the proper incentive, especially outside Minrathous. The provinces want better relations with the rest of Thedas. They’re tired of conflict.”

The Qunari eyed him, his face inscrutable. “You don’t favor the slave trade?”

“I used to. It was… just the way things always were. But the more I see of the world, of life… the more I’m persuaded that it’s a stain on the Imperium. We’ll never enjoy a lasting peace so long as our empire rests on the backs of slaves.” Dorian reached back across the table for his glass and took a deep sip. “And that’s entirely apart from the fact that it’s… you know… wrong.”

Bull was looking at him with an expression that Dorian couldn’t quite interpret.

“You surprise me, Vint. In fact, you haven’t stopped surprising me since we met.”

Dorian snorted. “Having started at ‘pure evil’ I suppose I could only rise in your esteem.”

“I’m serious. It took courage to talk to Fenris. Most of the magisters I’ve met would sell their own mothers to avoid a conversation like that. You could have taken it straight to the boss, cut the elf out completely.”

Dorian swirled the dregs in his glass, not meeting the Bull’s eyes. “It was the right thing to do.”

Bull picked up the empty bottle and examined the label. “Fancy.”

“Fenris ordered. Turns out he has quite the palette for Tevinter wine. Who knew? Too bad he didn’t stay to enjoy it.”

The Iron Bull was staring at him now with that same inscrutable expression, and it was beginning to disturb him.

“Do you hunt, Dorian?” asked the Bull, after what Dorian considered an uncomfortable duration of silence. Dorian regarded him with great suspicion. He couldn’t begin to imagine where this was going.

“Have you finally grown bored with ‘Vint’?”

“I think I have” Bull replied. “Answer the question.”

Dorian frowned. “Er, yes. Pheasants and such. Nothing large.”

“How ‘bout you and me go hunting tomorrow morning? Just us two.”

Dorian’s suspicion deepened.

“I… is this a… are you planning to kill me in the woods or is this a social outing?”

Bull simply held his gaze. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Dorian didn’t have an answer prepared. He had spent plenty of time with the Iron Bull in the field, but that was professional time. Battles of wit aside, they had a decent working relationship, but they had never spent any time together of their own free will.

“Can I think about it?” Dorian asked.

“Sure. Sleep on it. Let me know in the morning.” Bull got up to leave, but looked back at Dorian as he reached the door.

“Get some rest, Dorian.”

“ … you too.”

Well that was strange, thought Dorian. He was still pondering his conversation with Bull, a briefing from the Inquisitor half read on his lap, when he drifted off to sleep in the overstuffed chair in his study.

...

Dorian and Rufus Claudius sit together on the garden wall stroking each others’ hands. They kiss. They begin to kiss more deeply. Their reverie is broken by Dorian’s father shouting from the garden door. “Dorian! Inside, now!”

Rufus scrambles away over the wall, and Dorian, his heart stuck in his throat, is dragged by the arm into Magister Pavus’s office. His father slaps him hard across the face.

“Dorian, do you have any idea how foolish that was? If anyone, anyone found out about that little tryst it could ruin your future. It could ruin Rufus.” Magister Pavus won’t even look his son in the eye. “All it takes is one filthy rumor, and believe me, plenty of people would relish the opportunity to shame Claudius and I. Do you understand me? I’m not trying to hurt you, Dorian, but this can’t go on. Do you understand?”

Dorian tries to imagine he is somewhere far away. That this frightened young man is just a character in one of his novels. That this isn’t real. He stares down at the colorful pattern of vines and flowers woven into the carpet.

“Yes, father.”

Magister Pavus’s face softens. “You have a bright future, Dorian. So does Rufus. You simply can’t afford to take that kind of risk.” He sighs and gestures for his son to sit. “Son… if you really must express such feelings, there are… appropriate outlets. You cannot carry on with the son of a magister, but your slaves are a different matter. Get it out of your system, and for Maker’s sake, keep it quiet.”

Dorian looks up at his father, not entirely sure he believes what he’s hearing. “What do you mean?”

Magister Pavus shrugs. “What about Adeodatus? You always got on well with him.”

Later that evening Dorian sits nervously on his bed, waiting for a knock at the door.

“Come in.” He calls out when the knock finally comes. A fair haired elven boy of about Dorian’s age enters.

“Dorian? Dominus Pavus said you had need of me.”

Dorian looks away, avoiding Adeodatus’s eyes. “I- yes. Come sit with me, Dede.”

Adeodatus complies, coming to sit next to Dorian on the bed. “Dorian? Are you well? You look pale. Maybe I should get you some water.”

Before the elf can get up, Dorian catches his hand.

“Dede… have you ever been with anyone? I mean, like another man?”

A flicker of something passes over Adeodatus’s face, but he nods knowingly.

“I see. Please give me a moment to bathe and make myself presentable. I’ll return shortly.”

“Of course,” Dorian replies. He waits, growing increasingly uncomfortable. Adeodatus returns wrapped in a silk robe, his hair wet from the bath. He sits on the bed beside Dorian and puts a hand on his knee. Dorian looks up at him. He’s known Adeodatus all his life.

“Dede, you know you don’t have to do this.”

The elf looks Dorian in the eye, and the flicker returns, something in his expression that Dorian has never seen before. Something sad, jaded. “Don’t I?”

Adeodatus stands and begins to untie his robe. Dorian turns away, he can’t look. He covers his mouth. Finally Dorian gets up, stumbles to a corner and vomits. He kneels on the floor in front of a pool of sick, fighting the urge to start sobbing. Dede crosses the room and tries to help him to his feet.

“Dorian… Dorian get up.”

...

Dorian woke with a start. He was back in his study at Skyhold, and the sun was rising.

It was a crystal clear early spring morning in the Frostback Mountains. The alpine air was crisp and clean, sunlight streaming through the pines as Dorian and Iron Bull ventured forth into the woods outside Skyhold. Bull had come prepared with a set of light, hollow spears, but Dorian was conspicuously unarmed. Pine needles and frost crunched under their feet. Dorian was feeling introspective and had made no attempt at conversation, so their sortie had begun in quiet. Some minutes passed before Bull broke the silence.

“You sure you're up for this? You look like you're gonna hurl on those fine leather boots.”

Dorian shook his head. “Too much wine last night. The fresh air will do me good.”

He thought for a while, enjoying the birdsong and deciding how much he wanted to share with his Qunari colleague.

“I just can't stop thinking about Fenris's proposal. Damn it, he made a compelling case, but I will not stand by and see Minrathous razed. My heart couldn't take it.” Dorian looked up at the Iron Bull. “I'm sure that must seem insane to you, a Qunari.... My tragic love for the cesspool on the Nocen.”

“Actually it doesn't” Bull replied. “I mean, I can't pretend to understand that particular love... But I know what it is to be an exile still in love with home. Tal-vashoth, remember?”

Dorian chuckled. “Don't we make a fine pair.”

“I think we do.”

Dorian stopped in his tracks, squinting suspiciously. What in the bloody Void was going on here? “I'm too old for innuendo, Bull, and far too tired. Have I finally lost my senses or did you take me out here to court me?”

This was the Bull’s cue to flash that rakish grin of his, but his rugged face remained quite serious.“That all depends on you, my man. That little chat you were having with the elf. Strictly  
politics?”

“That isn't funny” Dorian shot back.

“I wasn't kidding.” In fact, the Iron Bull looked more serious than Dorian had ever seen him.

Dorian laughed in disbelief. “Right- leaving aside any consideration of the horrifying, immense baggage that would attend a relationship between myself and a former slave, it's clear that Fenris mourns for Hawke. He’d hate to hear me say it, but that man is Tevinter through and through. He'll die old and grey composing poems in Tevene entitled ‘Marian.’”

“What, you people mate for life?”

Dorian chuckled. “Haven't you heard? Tevinter is for lovers. Everyone in the South thinks it's all wine and orgies and glistening slaves, but the ideal in Tevinter has always been the ‘one woman man,’ or the ‘one man man,’ as the case may be but that’s somewhat more controversial.”

Bull grinned. “Yeah, we tend to overlook that aspect of our enemy.” The Qunari paused, hefting a spear and pretending to scan for movement in the trees. “You ever loved like that?”

“I've never had the opportunity.”

“Would you like to?”

Dorian could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “What's this? Could the oxman possibly be interested in more than just a hasty conquest of my various orifices?”

“I mean- hasty, no. A careful, sustained, and tactically sophisticated conquest followed by a concord of mutually beneficial peace between your orifices and my cock. And my orifices and your cock, if you like. How's that sound?”

Dorian was scandalized, amused… interested.

“I think that’s the first time a Tevinter ever heard a Qunari say the words ‘mutually beneficial peace’ in the history of Thedas.”

A rustling in a nearby stand of bushes caught Iron Bull’s attention. “I hear something. Behind and to your left!”

Dorian spotted the pheasant and fried it with a blast of fire from his fingertips. Bull fetched the charred bird from the bushes and held it up in triumph. “He kills the bird and cooks it all at once. Now that is skill.”

Dorian winked. “I aim to please.”


	3. Val Royeaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wardens help discover a secret that could leave the Inquisition with fewer allies than anticipated

Zevran looked out over the darkened windows and intricately carved facades of Val Royeaux. The pale stone that comprised most of the buildings in the ancient city glistened in the rain and reflected back in pools of water that collected between the cobblestones. Despite the rough clattering of the carriage, his companions were fast asleep. Mercy had curled up under his arm and Warden Blackwall had let his head fall back against the carriage door and was snoring vigorously.

By all rights Zevran should have been out cold himself. It was a hard ride from Soldier’s Peak-- they had been traveling for a week over mountain and dale and only in the last day had they been able to board their horses and complete the journey by carriage. He was looking forward to a warm bed, but for the time being his thoughts kept him acutely awake.

He had been apprehensive at first when he received Leliana’s message. The note secured around her raven’s little foot read simply--

“Anouk Pernet case to be reopened. Perhaps you can help. Don’t worry I have your back.”

Zevran had cursed himself for running his mouth to Leliana about the Pernet job. To be fair, at the time he had assumed they were all about to be dined upon by the Archdemon, so he hadn’t seen any harm in getting it off his chest.

Pernet’s contract had been the occasion for his first foray out of Antiva. The job had gone smoothly. At the time he assumed she was just another dirty guard on the take from whatever local syndicate worked the area and he hadn’t lost any sleep over it. It was only what he heard after the fact that made him itch.

Fifteen years ago, before the First Blight, before the war between Empress Celene and Duke Gaspard, the murder of Gendarme Anouk Pernet had shaken Val Royeaux to its foundation. A bright young member of the Gendarmerie Municipale had been stabbed twice in the back on her own doorstep in broad daylight. A neighbor had witnessed an elf feeling the scene. There was a frenzy to find Pernet’s killer, and the guard rounded up just about every man in the alienage looking for him. Certain human citizens decided the guard wasn’t working fast enough and took to harassing random elves and hauling them before the magistrate, claiming that they fit the killer’s description-- technically true given that said description did not elaborate beyond “an elf.” After two weeks, when Directuer Charles Michaud announced that the suspect had been seen boarding a ship to Antiva, riots broke out and a number of elven men were attacked.

Zevran sighed as the road narrowed and became flanked by squalid little rowhouses peppered with makeshift tents and lean-tos as they traveled through the alienage on the way to the city center. Every alienage had its own unique flavor, but in some ways they were all the same- crowded and poor, with no way out, he thought, watching an elderly woman with a bent back sift through some rubbish. Val Royeaux’s alienage wasn’t literally walled in like Denerim’s, but existentially the effect was the same. The alienage in Antiva City was at least lively, Val Royeaux’s was just vast.

There were still a few elves out on the street, either on their way home from the tavern or looking for a doorway to tuck into for the night, but Zevran still found it to be eerily quiet.

They passed two guards in the indigo uniforms of the Gendarmerie struggling with an elven girl who muttered obscenities through a cascade of curly red hair and swayed unsteadily as they hauled her off in the direction of the watch house. Pobrecita, he thought. She was probably just drunk. Zevran knew for a fact that a noble could go running past the Grand Cathedral with a bottle in his hand and his balls swinging in the breeze without a guard so much as looking at him.

The road broadened again as they left the alienage and the buildings grew larger and tidier and finally splendid and stately as they approached the Grand Cathedral. The carriage turned down a verdant little side street and stopped in front of a modest but elegant estate- the private quarters of Divine Victoria.

Zevran noted the conspicuous absence of guards and smiled. While previous holders of the Chantry’s highest order had kept a templar honor guard, Leliana had always preferred to do things her own way. If he had been able to see her agents with the naked eye, they wouldn’t be up to the nightingale's standards.

As soon as the carriage pulled up, a young man in Chantry robes come out of the house to escort the travelers inside. It took a moment to rouse Blackwall, he had fallen so deeply asleep that he swatted at Mercy when she tried to nudge him awake. The three wardens looked and felt wretched from the journey, but the Divine’s estate was warm with candlelight and the faint smell of night blooming jasmine lingered on the air, as well as a hint of something baking wafting in from the kitchen.

A familiar figure emerged at the top of the marble staircase. Leliana boasted some fresh lines on her face, but Zevran thought she was somehow even more radiant than when they had met during the Blight. The spiritual life seemed to suit her.

Leliana had forgone her ceremonial garments for a simple silk robe the pale violet of an evening sky that revealed her ivory decollete. He felt the old twinge of jealousy as he noticed Mercy’s whole body seem to relax and her haggard expression melt into one of pure joy as Leliana rushed to embrace her.

Don’t be ridiculous, he chided himself. He and Mercy had been faithful to each other for more than a decade (with but a few minor detours) and his rivalry with Leliana had long been put to rest. Although… he couldn’t deny there was a sort of pleasure in allowing it to be stirred back up. He found it somehow invigorating. Leliana embraced Blackwall too and turned to Zevran, greeting him with a kiss on each cheek.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, still holding him by the shoulders.

“Anything to bring to a killer to justice,” Zevran answered with a wink before growing serious. “Leliana, I need to know that if I reveal my role in this I’ll be protected. You said you had my back, right?”

She nodded. “I will personally guarantee your immunity in this matter. But I can assure you it won’t come to that. Once you meet the person in charge of the investigation, you’ll feel more at ease. She is someone who understands better than most what we must sometimes do to pay the bills.”

The Chantry brother took the guests’ cloaks and muddy boots and Leliana led them toward the sitting room where a bottle of wine had been opened and the low table had been set with a simple but comforting meal of freshly baked bread and onion soup. Blackwall stretched his massive arms with a great yawn. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m knackered. Leliana, love, do you mind if I show myself to my room and catch up in the morning?”

A small elven woman, dressed in a dark jacket and breeches, her face concealed by a gilded black mask fashioned to look like a swan’s head spoke from her place in an armchair in a shadowed corner of the room. “I’m afraid I must keep you from your bed a while longer, Warden.”

Blackwall started as if he’d seen a ghost, having had not the slightest idea that there was anyone else in the room. Mercy, in her exhausted state, was startled by the stranger as well, but Zevran’s eye had been drawn to her immediately. He had not become a successful assassin by allowing people to get the drop on him.

The woman stood and greeted the Wardens with a courtly bow. “Forgive me, I did not intend to startle you. My name is Briala, Marquise of the Dales and advisor to Empress Celene.”

Zevran shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Mercy, whose expression said that she hadn’t been expecting this either. The exchange was not lost on Briala.

“You can relax, Zevran, you’re here on my behalf.”

“In that case, my lady, it is a pleasure to meet you.” Zevran answered, still skeptical but warming to the situation. Briala was a shrewd politician, but she was also known to be someone who felt a great sense of loyalty toward her people. Zevran was hoping that included him. Besides, if Leliana trusted her that alone should be enough to put him at ease.

Leliana gestured at the sofa and the lovingly prepared meal that would be cold if they stood around any longer. “Sit! Relax. And Briala, darling, if you can’t wait until the morning the least you can do is take off your mask. You’re scaring the foreigners.” Zevran had to admit it gave him the creeps talking to a swan face.

“Perfectly normal to me,” stated Blackwall with a shrug as he settled in on the exquisitely upholstered divan and poured himself a generous glass of red wine. Mercy was trying to be polite, but the Orlesian fixation with masks distrubed her Ferelden heart to its core. Briala sighed and untied the mask, revealing a handsome face, sharp features, and a somber expression.

Briala turned her attention to the other guests. “Warden Blackwall, it is good to see you again.” Blackwall raised his glass in a gesture of salute. The Marquise’s eyes fell on Mercy, who was busy tucking into her soup and had to dab some off her face with as much dignity as possible when Briala addressed her.

“The Hero of Ferelden. Leliana has told me so much about you.” Mercy smiled politely, and Zevran couldn’t help but notice Briala’s eyes light up with interest as she regarded Mercy, one corner of her mouth turning up ever so slightly. What was it with Orlesian women and his wife? Well, he didn’t have to rack his brain too hard for the answer- she was a dark haired beauty to whom the years had been very kind who also happened to be the greatest hero of the age.

“All good things, I hope.”

Zevran inwardly shook his head as Mercy, feeling the warmth of Briala’s gaze, gave her a smile that was somewhat less polite and straightened up her back. Shameless.

But Briala wasn’t a woman to waste time on smalltalk, and after the initial pleasantries had been exchanged she got right down to business. She fixed her eyes on Zevran, and he had the discomfiting feeling that she could see right through his skull and leaf through his secrets like a book.

“Leliana said you have information for me. About the killing of Anouk Pernet.”

Zevran was willing to cooperate for the right reason, but that reason had yet to be given.

“I do, my dear lady, and I am ready to share it, but first I have questions. What exactly is your interest in reopening a fifteen year old case? Why not let sleeping dogs lie?”

Briala considered the question for a moment before reaching the conclusion that if she expected him to to be generous with his information, it didn’t hurt to give a little back.

“Pernet’s killer was an elf. Allegedly. You may have heard about the chaos that ensued after he escaped. It was an excuse for the humans to pour out their vitriol on us with a renewed vigor. But the investigation was a farce, in my opinion thoroughly bungled by the Gendarmerie. A single witness sees an elf running away from Pernet’s house and then he conveniently disappears. Directeur Michaud seemed happy enough to leave it at that and let the alienage take the brunt of the people’s frustration. Too happy, for my liking.”

Briala paused and took a deep drink of her wine. “To some degree this is a personal interest. I don’t know that it would make a damn bit of difference if I could prove Pernet’s killer wasn’t an elf, but at least justice would be served.”

Zevran narrowed his eyes. “Why now?”

“The Directeur General, in common parlance the captain of the city guard, Charles Michaud, died of a heart attack two weeks ago. He oversaw the investigation. He was, shall we say, sensitive about it. Wouldn’t let anyone touch it, insisted the case was closed.”

“He was an incompetent bigot,” interjected Leliana. “It is no surprise he didn’t want anyone scrutinizing his work”

Briala nodded in agreement. “The man Celene appointed to take his place, Boule, is still finding his feet. He doesn’t have the confidence to refuse me.”

Zevran sympathized with Briala’s motives. He was sorry to have to disappoint her.  
“Well, I can tell you one thing- the killer was indeed an elf.”

Briala frowned. “What? How can you know that?”

Zevran shrugged. “Because it was me.”

Briala stared at him for a moment in stunned silence before it dawned on her.

“But this is good news.”

“But I thought-” started Blackwall.

Briala hadn’t taken her eyes off Zevran. “Before you joined the wardens you were an Antivan Crow, were you not?”

“I was.”

“And Pernet’s death was a hit?”

“But of course.”

“So the real question isn’t who killed Pernet after all. It’s who so desperately wanted her dead.”

…

After that, Briala had relented and left the travel weary wardens to get a good night's rest. As Zevran wrapped his arms Mercy, calmed by the gentle rise and fall of her breath, he had the pleasant feeling that his sleep that night would be peaceful and deep. The Pernet job had weighed on him over the years, almost imperceptibly, like when you wear your coin purse to one side for too long and later find that your back aches but you don’t know why. His work had been messy by nature, and most of the time that didn’t bother him. The Great Game was as dangerous in Antiva as it was in Orlais, and those who chose to play knew the risks. But there were a few occasions on which he had looked too closely at his mark (which he endeavored not to do) and got the distinct sense that they were the victim of someone else’s ambition rather than their own. Collateral damage, nothing more. And that did bother him. Pernet was one such. He would be happy to uncover the truth behind her death. Moreover, a high profile client exposed could serve as another nail in the coffin he was building for the Antivan Crows, an institution he felt had long outlived its time.

They reconvened the next morning back in Leliana’s sitting room over tea and scones. The night’s rainclouds had cleared to reveal the kind of sparkling spring morning Val Royeaux was famous for, complete with sparrows singing in the ornamental cherry trees outside the window. They had all had the opportunity to wash away the dust from the road, and Mercy had borrowed one of Leliana’s ensembles, a simple blue frock of dales loden wool that strained a bit around her hips in a way that Zevran considered utter visual poetry. Blackwall had washed, combed, and oiled his long black hair and beard, and for the first time, Zevran could see how he had once fit in among the well-heeled ranks of the Chevaliers. Briala either hadn’t changed out of her dark suit, or she owned a number of them and wore them out of habit.

Leliana smiled suggestively at Blackwall as she poured his tea.

“Why, Warden Blackwall, you’re looking ever so handsome this morning. Do you have big plans? A rendezvous perhaps?” she inquired innocently.

Blackwall was well used to Leliana’s teasing, but he colored slightly none the less. “As a matter of fact, your Holiness, I don’t think its any of your business who I put on a clean shirt for,” he said, feigning indignation.

“It most certainly is my business, if you’re going to be keeping my Right Hand from her duties. Cassandra and company should be arriving this afternoon, and you many be interested to know that the opera she has been hoping to see, An Ocean of Blood, will be playing at the Theatre Merveilleux through the end of Drakonis. You may also be interested to know that I have secured box seats should you wish to make use of them.”

Blackwall chuckled, genuinely grateful. “You do think of everything, Leliana.”

“Has your Right Hand been absent?” Briala asked.

“She makes regular visits to Skyhold to keep the Inquisition apprised of its assignments,” Leliana answered lightly.

“And will the Inquisitor be joining her in Val Royeaux?”

“I believe so,” Leliana replied with a nonchalance that immediately piqued Mercy’s interest. She reminded herself to bring it up after Briala had left.

Her curiosity satisfied, Briala turned her attention back toward Zevran.

“So can I safely assume that you are unaware of the identity of whoever who hired you to kill Pernet?”

“I would already have told you if I knew,” Zevran replied. “The Crows are structured in such a way as to maximize anonymity. Crow operatives do not deal directly with clients, but with a guild master who is in charge of drawing up and distributing contracts. Discretion is the guildmaster’s highest directive. My old guildmaster, Talav, would have known who the client was. But I don’t think he’ll speak to us.”

“Are you certain of that?” asked Briala. “I can be very persuasive.”

“I don’t doubt that, my lady,” Zevran answered with a chuckle, “but unless you know a good necromancer willing to travel to Antiva City and drag him up from the bottom of the Grand Canal, I’m afraid he won’t be able to help.”

“Even I’m not that good,” Mercy chimed in with a shrug.

The corners of Briala’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. “You’re right, that does pose a problem. D’accord. We’ll have to do this another way. Start from the beginning.”

“My lady, I know you have what you brought me here for, but I would like to continue to be of service, of I can,” offered Zevran.

Briala raised an eyebrow.

“Work is work, of course, but I can’t help but feel responsible. This job had terrible consequences for our brothers and sisters in Val Royeaux. If I can help make it right it would mean a great deal to me.”

“Anything that is important to Zevran is important to me as well. I, too, am at your disposal in this matter,” added Mercy.

Briala, not a woman to whom trust came easily, scrutinized her would-be deputies before addressing Blackwall. “And you, Warden? Will you join us in bringing the truth to light?”

He needed no convincing. “Gendarme Pernet deserves some justice, and the elves of this city deserve a break. I’m in.”

Briala’s face once more betrayed the shadow of a smile. The willingness of these people to help impressed her. Not since the Inquisitor had she met anyone so amenable to taking on other people’s troubles.

“In that case, it seems to me that our first task is to speak to the victim’s sister, Agnes Devereaux. She is Anouk’s only remaining relative. Warden Blackwall, My Lady Hero, perhaps you could pay her a visit. Given the circumstances I think it might be best for us elves to remain behind the scenes for the time being,” said Briala, with a nod to Zevran. “I admit, I am relieved to have the help. Without my mask, I can move unrecognized about the city, but if it should get back to Celene I would never hear the end of it.”

“Did you not tell her that you would be pursuing this?” asked Leliana.

“Oh, I did,” Briala answered with an exasperated snort. “But she is protective. I am already unpopular enough with the humans of Val Royeaux without insinuating myself where I am not wanted. Celene told me it was too dangerous and that I ought to leave well enough alone. The less I have to explain to her the better.”

When Briala had departed, Mercy caught Leliana by the arm as she was getting ready to go out and receive visitors at the Grand Cathedral.

“What’s the story with the Inquisitor? You didn’t want Briala asking questions, I could tell.”

“Whatever do you mean, cherie?”

Mercy gave her a withering look.

“Oh fine. You have our confidence in all things. The Inquisitor recently received a visit from Lord Fenris Hawke of Kirkwall. He has asked the Inquisition to march on Tevinter with the objective of freeing the Imperium’s slaves. That is what the Inquisitor is coming to discuss.”

Mercy and Zevran sat for a moment in utter astonishment. Blackwall, who had been told as much by his lady love, continued to enjoy his breakfast.

“Oh my,” said Mercy.

“No shit,” Leliana replied.

….

Leliana’s carriage brought them to the Quartier des Erables near the inland edge of the city, a quiet little suburb just before the farms began where Agnes Devereux, nee Pernet, lived with her husband and children in a picturesque stone cottage with white lace curtains. Zevran stayed behind in the carriage, leaving Mercy and Blackwall to speak with Agnes.

As Zevran watched the birds flit from rooftop to budding branch, he reflected on the quiet spring morning very much like this fifteen years prior that he had taken Anouk Pernet’s life. He had waited in the alley by her flat near the Beau Marche for her to return home from the night’s watch. He slipped around behind her as she reached her doorstep, quiet as a shadow. Pernet didn’t even have the opportunity to scream- his hand was over her mouth and his knife plunged into her back in the span of an instant. Almost immediately, the powerful cocktail of sedative and anesthetic with which he laced his daggers went to work on Pernet, and she went limp as Zevran eased her gently to the ground and walked causally away down the street, leaving the anticoagulant to do its grim work. Apparently he had been seen by a neighbor. He had been masked, which did not make him conspicuous in Val Royeaux, but the witness had taken note of his long, slender ears. It was probably the first thing the old biddy had looked for. If he had known all the trouble that would cause, he would have worn a hood.

Zevran sighed. He could at least take comfort in the knowledge that after the first sharp shock, Pernet would not have felt any pain. The anticoagulant was a standard amongst the Crows, but the Felandaris compound to numb the victim and make them sleep was his own innovation. Zevran took pleasure in the coin he received for a job well done, not from the suffering he inflicted in the process.

“I hope she’s home,” mused Mercy as they approached the cottage. Blackwall rapped firmly on the cheerful blue door.

After a moment when it seemed like no one would answer, a middle aged woman opened the door. She was attractive and robustly built, but her face was careworn and she had dark shadows under her hazel eyes. She looked from Mercy to Blackwall uncertainly.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Mercy greeted her the sympathetic smile that had allowed people over the years to let her do everything from treat their wounds to chose their king.

“Agnes Devereaux?” she asked, presenting Agnes with the official seal of Divine Victoria. “I know this is unexpected, but Divine Victoria recently received a petition to reopen your sister’s case. Do you have a moment to talk?”

Emotion washed over Agnes’s face, a mixture of grief and eagerness. “Yes, yes. Please, come in. But try to be a bit quiet, I just got the little one down for his nap in the next room.” Agnes showed them to a cozy parlour strewn with toys.

“Thank the Maker,” she said. “I had just about given up hope.”

“Given up hope of seeing Anouk’s killer brought to justice?” asked Mercy gently.

“The guard said he ran off, but to be honest, I think they just wanted to have done with it. I mean, they never caught him, did they? He could still be out there. They don’t even know the man they saw get on the boat was him.” Agnes twisted the hem of her dress.

“The investigation left a lot of questions, didn’t it?”

Agnes nodded.

“Did your family ever ask the Gendarmerie to keep looking?”

“We did. A number of times. Directeur Michaud just kept saying that they’d done everything they could.” Agnes blinked back a tear, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to get so emotional.”

Mercy reached over and took Agnes’s hand with a reassuring squeeze. “No need to apologize. Agnes, I’m sure you went over this ad nauseum with the guard, but can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Anouk?”

Agnes shook her head. “No. Everyone loved her. She was a good officer, a good friend, she didn’t really make enemies, that just weren’t her.”

Agnes got up and took a portrait off the mantle of a young woman with golden hair and a big open, smile. “Look at her, wasn’t she lovely? I was always the one with the attitude, I’d have been more likely to piss someone off enough to want me dead. Not Anouk.”

“Agnes, you and your husband are Anouk’s only living relatives, is that right?”

“We have cousins out in Sarnia, but we don’t see them much. So yeah, basically it’s just us.”

“Who were Anouk’s friends at that time? Is there anyone you can think of that the guard may not have talked to?” asked Blackwall.

Agnes hesitated. “Well, most of her friends were colleagues from the Gendarmerie. They all would have said if they knew anything. There was one person though…”

Mercy and Blackwall waited patiently for Agnes to continue.

“Look, I didn’t say nothing at the time because Anouk didn’t want anyone to know. You know, it’s not a big deal really, but with Anouk being in the guard she just preferred to keep her private life private. But things are different now- even the Empress has herself a lady friend. I wish Anouk had lived to see it. You’ll want to find Jeanette Okoyo. I don’t know if the guards already talked to her, but they didn’t know about the relationship and Jeanette would have wanted to protect Anouk’s reputation. It might be worth speaking with her again.”

As they went to leave, Agnes had grabbed Mercy and hugged her tightly, thanking her and Blackwall for what they were trying to do. Mercy wasn’t a praying woman, but she prayed to the maker they hadn’t rekindled Agnes’s hope for nothing.

…

They found Jeanette behind the counter of the Patisserie near the city center where Agnes had told them she worked. She was a tall, elegant woman of about thirty five with a dark complexion and braided hair, carefully piping delicate icing flowers onto an exquisite chantilly cream cake. Mercy bought a petit four and slipped a note across the counter to Jeanette.

She met them at one of the outdoor cafes nearby off the Beau Marche, and while courteous she did not seem eager to discuss her relationship with Anouk Pernet.

“I wish I could help you, but I already told the gendarmerie everything I know,” said Jeanette.

Mercy wouldn’t have said Jeanette was nervous, but she was certainly on her guard. That was alright. If there was one thing Mercy excelled at, it was breaking down people’s walls.

“Jeanette, Agnes told us that you and Anouk were in a relationship. You were probably the closest person in the world to her. Did she ever tell you about being afraid of someone? Was there anything on her mind at the time she was killed?”

Jeanette’s face softened, but instead of answering she simply stared down into her coffee.

Mercy continued. “I know you haven’t had much cause to hope in a very long time, but we do have new information that might help us find the person responsible for her death.”

Jeanette sniffed disdainfully. “You mean the mystery elf?”

Mercy shook her head. “No. Jeanette, we have good reason to believe that Anouk’s death was a hit. That someone hired an assassin to kill her. We’re no longer looking for her assassin, we’re looking for whoever hired them.”

Jeanette looked up from the table, eyes wide. “This is for real, then? And you work for Divine Victoria, not the guard?”

“This is an independent inquiry. And as to your first question, I certainly hope so.”

A look of steely determination passed over Jeannette’s pretty face. “Anouk was conducting an independent inquiry of her own when she was killed. Elves were disappearing from the alienage. She was looking into it. It started as one missing persons inquiry, but she noticed that there were more, and the guard wasn’t following up. Her boss tried to put her off it, but she wouldn’t let it go, she just switched to doing it in her free time.”

Jeanette met Mercy’s gaze, her eyes full of emotion. “Anouk really believed in doing her best for people. She wasn’t about to let those people down, even if the rest of the world forgot them.”

“Do you think this investigation was why Anouk was killed? Was she getting too close to something?” Mercy asked.

“Yeah, I always thought so. Her boss seemed quite keen for her to drop it. That’s why I never told the guard about this at the time. She was keeping it quiet and I… I just didn’t know.”

The poor woman. Mercy tried to imagine what it must have been like for her all these years- carrying her grief in secret, not knowing who she could trust…

“Jeanette, I can’t thank you enough for sharing this with us. I think it might really help. If we find anything out you’ll be the first to know.”

…

When Jeanette had taken her leave, Zevran slipped out of the book shop he’d been watching them from and sat down at the table. He waved a waiter over and ordered them a round of coffees.

“Anything interesting?” he asked.

Mercy and Blackwall glanced at one another.

“Oh, you could say that. According to Jeanette, Anouk was doing a little extracurricular sleuthing just before you got her contract.” Mercy paused for dramatic effect.

“Do go on,” Zevran urged.

“Apparently she was looking into a series of mysterious disappearances from the alienage. And the boss didn’t like it. Told her to call off the investigation.” Blackwall finished.

Zevran’s eyebrows shot up.

“I see.”

“We should tell to Briala, see if she can’t get us in to the Palais de Justice. I’d be interested to see if these disappearances were even reported,” said Mercy.

“While you do that,” said Blackwall. “I’m off to pay a visit to a friend. A mouse doesn’t shit in the alienage but she knows about it.”

…

Blackwall garnered a few wary stares as he made his way into the heart of the Val Royeaux alienage. Standing well over six feet tall, with a heavy black beard and sharp, hawkish face he cut an imposing figure. But Blackwall met each stare with a polite nod, and eventually arrived at his goal- a crumbling statue of Divine Renata with her finger pointed accusatorily toward the sky. Someone had sketched a crude representation of a phallus on her forehead. Blackwall produced a red handkerchief from his pocket and tied it to Renata’s finger. He then ducked in to a nearby elven tavern, ordered an ale, and parked himself at a grimy table in the corner.

…

At the Palais de Justice, which was situated in a hulking, smoke stained building somewhere between the alienage and the Beau Marche, Mercy and Zevran sorted through the dusty, yellowed reports with Briala looking over their shoulder. The young gendarme at the front desk had been surly at first, but cleaned up his act straight away when he realised who Briala was and showed them back to the records room where reports going back decades from all over the city were arranged chronologically in tall wooden flat files. Each year was separated according to which quarter of the city the crime took place in, and they had quickly located the files for the alienage, 9:26 Dragon.

“Drunk and disorderly, petty theft, theft, more drunk and disorderly, disrespectful address of a municipal guard, oh, here’s a murder…” The paper was dried out and brittle, and Mercy handled it gingerly. She shook her head, puzzled.

“Plenty of crimes, plenty of arrests, but no disappearances… maybe they were misfiled, but… what are you looking at, Zev?”

Zevran had been leafing through the files, searching for something, and had finally found it. The report detailing Pernet’s murder. He skimmed it until he reached the autopsy report. “I’m just curious about something… the forensic surgeon should have sent a sample of the victim’s blood to the Circle of Magi to be analyzed for poison.”

Zevran licked his index finger and turned over another page.

“Ah, here it is… and wouldn’t you know it… it’s clean. There should be all kinds of shit in there- felandaris, blue nettle, everything I coat my blades with. That’s how you know its a professional and not just a mugging gone wrong. Mi amor, I don’t think you’re going to find those missing person reports.”

Briala spat a curse under her breath. “I knew it.”

…

When Briala, Mercy and Zevran returned to Leliana’s estate they were surprised to find a new addition to their merry band of amateur detectives. Blackwall was in the kitchen with Her Holiness picking off a plate of cured meats, and an elven woman with a blunt blonde bob sat on the counter swinging her legs, chatting happily with a beer in her hand.

Sera didn’t stand on ceremony, and she didn’t bother hopping down from the counter to introduce herself. She simply flashed them a dazzling grin.

“Alright then?” she greeted the newcomers, sliding her gaze subtly over Mercy’s hips.

“Everyone, this is Sera,” said Blackwall, clapping her affectionately on the back. “Sera, I believe you’ve met Briala…”

Briala sniffed in grudging assent as Sera waggled her eyebrows impudently at the Marquise.

“And this is Warden Mercy Amell and Warden Zevran Arianai.”

Zevran bowed gallantly, which seemed to delight Sera, and Mercy offered her hand which the elf took with a firm squeeze.

“Pleasured, I’m sure” said Sera. “I hear you’ve gone and sniffed yourselves out a mystery.”

“You could say that,” said Mercy, settling down into a chair and helping herself to some Antivan jamon.

“Sera, do you remember, about fifteen years ago, anyone going missing from the alienage?” asked Zevran. “I know it was a long time ago…”

Sera nodded grimly. “Like it was yesterday. It was lotsa people, actually. We never knew what happened to them. We thought maybe some sicko was out there killin’ elves and dumpin’ em in the harbor. It was scary- one of my friends went missing. Tem… Tem Shucker.” Sera frowned. “Is that what you’re investigating? I thought it was about that dead copper.”

“It looks like the two might be connected,” Mercy explained. “I’m guessing the gendarmerie didn’t make much of an effort to find them?”

Sera snorted derisively. “Just sat with their thumbs up their arses in the watch house. Said they all probably just ‘ran away’,” she said, making air quotes. “Ah, your old man is missing? Probably just got himself a new family up county.”

“But it stopped eventually, right?” Mercy asked.

Sera nodded slowly, trying to remember. “Yeah, it did. It mostly all went down in 9:25, I don’t remember anyone disappearing after the next spring.”

“No one’s gone missing since?” asked Zevran.

Sera hesitated. “Well, here and there. There was a few lads while I was away with the Inquisition, but you know by then the Carta had moved in and it looked like they were in business with that lot. And maybe there were others, but… isolated, like. And sometimes folks do just get fed up and leave.”

An idea occurred to Sera. “You know just this morning, neighbor of mine was saying his sister’s up and run off with her sailor boyfriend. Didn’t give him no warning or nothin, just left a note- ‘goodbye brother dear, I’m off to ride that good Ferelden dick all the way back to Denerim!’- I mean it didn’t really say that…”

Sera trailed off, thinking. “He was worried, actually. Thought there was something fishy about it. He asked me to keep an eye out for her.” Sera produced a locket from her coat and opened it to reveal a rather good but rough and scratched up portrait of a young woman with a cascade of bright red curls. “That’s her. Griselda Vache, her name is.”

Zevran’s eyes went wide when he saw the portrait.

“Hijo de puta,” he gasped under his breath.

Mercy looked sharply at him. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s still happening.”  
...

“My sweeeeEEEEEEeeeeet Rosarita, you are so divine, your eyes are like diamonds, your kisses like wine, I fit in your hand like a key in a lock, and my heart does a dance when you suck on my-”

Zevran saw the guards approach him from the corner of his eye as if on cue. He took a pull from the bottle of cider in his hand and let himself wobble a little for effect. Gendarme A, a sallow young man with hair the color of dirty straw, sauntered up to Zevran with a look of haughty disapproval. Gendarme B, an equally sallow young man but a bit more heavy set, planted his feet and crossed his arms a few paces away, ready in case of trouble.

“Alright monsieur, I think you’ve had enough enjoyment for one evening. Come with me, please.”

Zevran sniffed indignantly at the guard, slipping out of the radius of his reach. “No monsieur, I think it is you who has had enough and I do not think I would like to go with you, so adieu.” Zevran turned to lurch away, but found himself face to face with the second guard who had circled around behind him. Zevran frowned and feigned confusion.

“Good monsieur, what is the meaning of this? I demand that you unhands me and let me to go about my business.”

The heavy set guard gave a mirthless chuckle. “Not a fucking chance.”

The guards took Zevran by each arm and began marching him in the direction of the watch house. Zevran put up a halfhearted struggle, insulting his captors’ parentage and sexual prowess and protesting the injustice of his arrest. The guards, undaunted, simply carried on down the narrow streets of the alienage in grim silence.

The watch house at the edge of the alienage was eerily deserted. It was not the Palais du Justice, and only served the surrounding neighborhood, but Zevran had still expected to find a few grifters or maybe a fellow drunk sleeping it off. The guards escorted him to a cell where he made a show of curling up in the hay and falling asleep.

Beyond the bars of his cell, the guards shifted nervously. Zevran felt that they were oddly tense for such a slow night. As he pretended to snore, his keen ears pricked up as the two guards exchanged words behind the sticky, scuffed up desk on the other side of the room.

“I dunno, man, do you think they’ll even take him? They said they wanted young. He’s a little past his prime.”

Rude. I am very much still in my prime, thought Zevran.

The heavier guard, who didn’t seem quite as anxious as his colleague, dug some snuff out of his pocket and took a hearty snort.

“He’s strong, they’ll take him. Plenty of uses for a healthy bugger like him.”

“I don’t know, Blaine, we already gave them one this week. People are gonna start to notice.”

“Orders is orders. You worry too much. No one’s gonna notice one less knife-ear. Maker knows we’ve got enough.”

Lovely. But what’s this about orders? Given the extent of the cover-up evidenced by Pernet’s autopsy report, they had suspected it was more than just a few rank-and-file guards making an extra sovereign, and Zevran was very interested to know where these orders were coming from. The “already gave them one this week” was probably in reference to poor Griselda. Zevran only hoped she was still alive and ideally still somewhere in Val Royeaux.

The skinny guard with the dirty blond hair twisted the medallion pinned the the front of his uniform, the sigil of the Gendarmerie Municipal, with such nervous energy he looked like he was about to rip it right off.

“Yeah, I just don’t know, Blaine. Don’t you think its a bit fucked up?”

Blaine regarded his companion with pure disgust. “Don’t be such a puss, Conrad.”

Both guards started at the sound of a quiet knocking at the service door.

“Who is it?” Blaine called out.

“Prisoner transfer.”

Blaine opened the small door that led out into the alley behind the watch house. A hooded figure stood in the dim yellow lamplight. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, and was almost entirely obscured by a long grey cloak. Zevran could see a horse cart parked in the alley behind him.

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.” Blaine prodded Zevran with the toe of his boot. Zevran stretched and stood up languidly.

“What’s this?” he asked as the hooded figure stepped into the room.

“You’re being transferred,” answered Blaine with an unfriendly smile.

Here we go, thought Zevran. Now to just sit tight and let them lead us--

The hooded figure was waving his hand in front of Zevran’s face and suddenly the room was spinning.

Hijo de-, was the last thing he thought before he slumped unconscious to the floor.

…

“Son of a bitch” Sera hissed as the service door opened and the two guards carried a limp Zevran out into the alley. “Shit, shit!”

Mercy felt a chill pass over her whole body as she watched the guards load Zevran into the back of the waiting horse cart from their vantage point behind a cluster of barrels that reeked of burnt trash. The hooded figure followed behind the two guards, stepping up into the driver’s seat once his captive was secured. She took a deep breath. He was alright. Zevran was a warden, like her. Like her, by virtue of his tainted blood he was connected to the hivemind of the darkspawn horde, and the song of the horde hummed in his veins. If his song fell silent, she would hear it. It was nonetheless disturbing to see him so helpless. She felt a strong hand squeeze her shoulder.

“He’s alright, Mercy,” whispered Blackwall. “We’ll have him back soon enough.”

The hooded figure tapped the horse and the cart slowly started to trundle down the narrow alley. Sera signaled up to the darkened window where Briala was keeping watch and they were on the move. Sera split off from Mercy and Blackwall and disappeared into the hidden passages of the alienage that only a true local could know- a storm water system that ran for miles beneath the city before emptying into the harbor. Briala took yet another route. The remaining wardens followed slowly behind the cart, keeping their distance and sticking to the shadows to avoid being made.

The horse cart wended its leisurely way through the streets of the silver city. It followed the backroads well away from the Boulevard de Soleil, over cracked stones and through great clouds of noxious steam emanating from the sewers. The famously daring rats of Val Royeaux ambled rather casually out of its path.

They had been following the cart for nearly an hour when the huddled buildings parted and they could see glimpses of the Waking Sea glittering in the moonlight. Mercy glanced at her comrade.

“The docks?”

“I’d say so,” Blackwall answered softly.

As they had suspected, the cart made a turn down to the marina and followed the stone pier to a secluded mooring toward the end, stopping in front of a clipper. Mercy couldn’t make out a name or provenance on the ship, but they were still some distance away. Having come to a stop, the hooded figure stepped down off the cart and two more figures emerged from the hold of the ship. They descended the gangway down to the pier and lifted the canvas tarpaulin off the back of the cart, hauling Zevran roughly out, one man holding him under the shoulders and the other by the feet. They carried Zevran up the gangway. The hooded figure tied up the horse and disappeared with the rest back into the hold of the ship.

“What now?” asked Blackwall.  
…

Zevran groaned as a sharp pain blossomed in his head. He opened his eyes, but it was dark and everything was out of focus. He was lying on a hard wood floor with his hands and feet bound. There was something in his mouth that tasted foul. He tried to spit it out, but found that he was gagged. When his vision came back into focus he saw that he was behind bars in a cramped, dimly lit room. He could see moonlight filtering in through a small window, and outside… a forest? No… masts.

A man sat scratching in a ledger by candlelight at a table beyond the bars. He was still wearing the cloak, but the hood was pulled back to reveal a pale, grim face and thinning ice blond hair. Zevran glanced around. He was not the only prisoner in the brig. A pitiful little bundle was curled up in the corner- a young elven woman with a cascade of fiery red hair, likewise bound and gagged. She stared at him, her eyes full of panic. Zevran gave her a look that he hoped conveyed an assurance that everything was going to be alright.

A young man in light armor climbed down the stairs into the hold and addressed the man Zevran had concluded was the leader of this operation. The two men spoke in a dialect that Zevran didn’t understand but certainly recognized- Tavene.

Oh for fuck’s sake, thought Zevran. They’re slavers. The Gendarmerie Municipal had been kidnapping elves from the alienage and selling them to Tevinter slavers. He wondered whose pockets that was lining. Fifteen years… this had been going on unnoticed for fifteen years. Whoever it was must have a fortune by now. Perhaps Directeur Michaud had passed this little golden goose on to his successor?

A clamor broke out as something came crashing down the stairs into the ship’s hold and rolled across the floor, coming to rest at the Tevinters’ feet. The men cried out in horror and disgust. It was the head of the third slaver. The younger man rushed up the stairs to confront their attacker, but he had barely emerged before he was filled with arrows and fell heavily back down into the hold. In corner of the brig, Grisela was struggling against the ropes, trying to free herself. The older slaver had backed himself up against the far wall and was armed with a staff that was beginning to glow with a sickly green light. Briala strode down the stairs with a look of deadly purpose on her face, the dagger she held in her left hand slick with blood. The slaver pointed his staff in the direction of the brig.

“Come any closer and I’ll kill them both,” he hissed.

Zevran braced for impact as Briala continued to bear down on the mage, but the burst of magic never came. The mage’s staff simply flickered and snuffed out. Zevran looked up and saw Mercy standing at the top of the stairs like a dark angel- her long black hair swirling around her, her pupils monstrously dilated. The slaver, disarmed, realizing there was nowhere to run, flung his staff down in panic. “Parlay-” he had time to say before Briala struck him in the temple with the hilt of her dagger. He crumpled to the floor. Mercy rushed down the stairs and reached her hands through the bars of the brig to pull the gag off Zevran’s face. He met her with a radiant grin.

“My love,” he swooned, hamming up the melodrama, “I knew you’d come for me.”

Mercy laughed. “I promise next time I’ll be the bait.”

Mercy freed Zeveran’s hands as Briala dug through the slaver’s pockets for the key to the brig. Blackwell and Sera joined them down in the hold, surveying the carnage. As soon as he was free, Zevran went to work untying Griselda.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“What,” she gasped, “in the bleeding Void was that? Who were those bastards?

“Slavers,” Zevran answered grimly.

“Andraste’s arse…” Griselda shook her head in disbelief. “Last thing I remember I was having a drink with some mates down at the inn, and then I woke up here.”

“Don’t worry,” Briala said to the girl. “This piece of shit will pay dearly for his crimes.”

Mercy picked up the ledger on the table that the slaver had been writing on. She read a bit of Tavene. “Bills of sale…”

They bound the slaver tightly and Blackwell dragged him up to the deck and down on to the stony pier. They loaded the unconscious slaver into his own cart and set off back toward the center of town.  
…

The slaver sat slumped over, tied securely to a beautifully upholstered chair in the sitting room of Briala’s spacious apartment off the Beau Marche. Sera had returned after escorting Griselda home to her family and joined Briala, Mercy, Blackwall and Zevran in enjoying a celebratory glass of brandy and contemplating the fate of their captive.

“Fifteen years…” Blackwall shook his head. “After Pernet I guess they slowed down their operation. She caught on to them cause they were getting greedy so after that they made sure to only take one or two people at a time.”

“The watch house off the alienage was empty when they arrested me. They must be diverting the regular prisoners to another district to cut down on witnesses,” mused Zevran.

“I wonder how many people in the Gendarmerie know,” said Mercy with a shudder. “Michaud, without a doubt. I reckon he’s the one who hired you to kill Pernet. His successor, Boule, is probably in on it as well.”

“Enough of them are involved that the whole filthy business ran like a well oiled machine for fifteen years,” Briala said softly, her voice charged with fury. “I think its time we let our friend here fill us in.”

Briala waved a small veil of smelling salts under the slaver’s nose. He awoke with a sputtering cough.

“Good morning,” cooed Briala. The slaver simply glared at her. “We have a few questions for you, monsieur.”

The slaver grimaced. “Vishante kaffas. You’re obviously going to kill me no matter what, so I have nothing to say to you.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” replied Briala. “I’m going to bring you before Empress Celene. If you can find it in your heart to tell the truth and testify before the Empress’s court about your friends in the Gendarmerie and your dealings with them, your honesty might just buy your miserable life.”

A shadow of confusion passed over the slaver’s face, and then he laughed.

“The Empress? Foolish woman, it is the Empress with whom I am in business. I can see you don’t believe me- look- sewn into my robe there is a hidden pocket,” the slaver glanced down at his chest, indicating where Briala should look. “See what you find there.”

Warily, Briala reached down the front of his robe until she felt something beneath the fabric. She ripped into the silk with her fingernails and produced a slip of paper stamped with an intricate wax seal. The Imperial seal of Empress Celene.

The color drained from Briala’s face. She looked as if she had been stabbed in the gut.

“Briala,” said Mercy, “he’s lying. He could have stolen the seal.”

But Briala shook her head. Before anyone had time to stop her, Briala seized her dagger and cut the slaver’s throat. Blood poured out onto the silk carpet. Briala’s hands were shaking.

“She knew…” she whispered. “She always knew.”

Mercy had got up and gently eased the dagger out of Briala’s trembling hands, placing it away from her on the mantle.

“Even during the war with Gaspard, there was always money coming from somewhere. Celene always had something extra hidden away to throw her lavish parties, to keep up appearances. I always wondered… and now I know.”

“Bitch,” spat Sera, her face tense with rage.

Briala looked desperately at Mercy. “I have to get out of here. I have to get back to my estate in the Dales before she finds out what I know. I have people there who can protect me.”

Mercy placed her hands on Briala’s shoulders. “Maker speed your steps. You’ll always be welcome at Soldier’s Peak if you need a place to lay low.”

Zevran watched the blood drip from the slaver’s body and soak through the Imperial seal where Briala had left it on the floor. The wickedness of the world never ceased to amaze him. It was a dark thought, but perhaps he had done that bright-eyed young guard a favor all those years ago. Perhaps it was best that Anouk Pernet didn’t live to discover the extent of the decay at the heart of the Empire she had so faithfully tried to serve.

“Oh Maker,” gasped Blackwall. “The Inquisitor. We have to warn her…”


	4. Through the Exalted Plains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After receiving disturbing intelligence about Empress Celene, the Inquisition retreats to Emprise du Lion, but has yet to reach a decision

Grace stared out over the smoking ruin of the Exalted Plains as all around her shadowy figures fought and fell. Lindiranae’s forces, impossibly outnumbered, made a final stand against a charge of Orlesian chevaliers and were trampled under the hooves of the armored horses. Grace winced as the arrow pierced an opening in Lindiranae’s armor and she fell to her knees with an awful gurgle. 

Around the edges of the memory loomed a massive shape, lurking just outside her plane of vision, never holding a single form long enough for her to perceive him. 

“This is all very disturbing, Solas, but I assume it's meant to be a teaching moment and it would save us both a lot of time if you just explained the lesson. What exactly am I supposed to be getting out of this?”

His voice came from everywhere, from inside her mind, as conversational as if he were sitting right beside her, just having a pleasant chat over a nice cup of tea. 

“Have you even considered the optics of calling for an Exalted March? This is an Exalted March. I thought you might wish to know what it is you’re planning to inflict on the world.”

She knew it was pointless to lose her patience with him, or worse, get drawn into a debate, so she attempted to be even-keeled and respectful in her reply. 

“I think it’s fair to say that this is a different situation. You defended the slaves of the Evanuris at great cost, I would think that you of all people… or entities… would be sympathetic to Fenris’s cause.” 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t.”

She knew it was pointless, but it was just so tempting. 

“Besides, what do you care? You’re just biding your time before you can end the whole blighted world anyway, what in Andraste’s name do you care about my optics?”

“Nothing in Andraste’s name, child. You’re very irritable tonight. I think the pregnancy might be effecting your mood.”

No, thought Grace, not taking the bait. She resented that he could hear her think that. And then resented that he could feel her resentment.

“You know, instead of brooding over remnants of former glory, you could put your power to use and be helpful for a change. Most of the people enslaved in the Imperium are in fact elves, I’m sure they would appreciate your intervention.”

“We’ve been over this-”

“Right, of course, not your people. Well it’s none of my business anyway. Solas, are we finished? I’ve got a long day of travel ahead of me, I’d like to get some rest.”

The great slouching beast began to dissipate like smoke, but his voice still surrounded her. As long as she was in the Fade there was no escaping him. This was his kingdom. He was everywhere. 

“For now.”   
…

The Inquisition had not been two hours in Val Royeaux before Blackwall had come bursting in to the guesthouse where they were staying to inform them of Celene’s newly discovered treachery. This had left their entire purpose uncertain, for Celene was the Inquisition’s most powerful ally, and if Leliana chose to authorize the Exalted March, their next course of action would have been to appeal to her for aid. The Inquisition's forces on their own did not exceed five hundred, but the armies of Orlais, though exhausted by the war between Celene and Gaspard, numbered in the tens of thousands. 

Grace couldn’t be certain what Celene’s dirty dealings with Tevinter would mean for their endeavor, but she was quite certain that the Empress could no longer be trusted. Celene had a stake in the slave trade, and while she may not be inclined to take direct action in preventing them from halting it, Grace seriously doubted she would help. This left them quite alone. 

The Inquisition had remained in Val Royeaux for a few days, as it was agreed that leaving the city no sooner than they had arrived might look awfully suspicious. Briala had warned them that Celene was at her most dangerous when confronted with her own duplicity, that it was best if she didn’t find out that they had discovered her secret.

So Cassandra and Blackwall had enjoyed the opera, Cullen had taken the opportunity to show Fenris around the historic city, and Grace had paid her respects to the newly instated Knight Vigilant, who had insisted on taking her shopping for baby clothes at the Beau Marche. All things considered, it had been a pleasant trip. The exception, of course, had been the receipt of a most sinister revelation about the woman she had personally helped keep in power. In retrospect Grace rather wished that she had let Florianne kill her, though Cullen had helped put things in perspective by pointing out that Gaspard would have been just as likely to sell out his elven subjects for coin. Grace sighed. What a wonderful world. 

She tried to remember that for all the corruption and wickedness that lurked in the hearts of the powerful, there were people out there trying to do good as well. Leliana’s reformation of the circles of magi had been largely successful and more popular with the people than anyone had imagined. Mages were no longer compelled to live in the circles, but could do so if they chose. The circles continued to provide an education to help mages learn to control their powers and defend themselves from demons, but they were no longer a prison where mages were forced to live and die isolated from the outside world. The rite of tranquility had been banned, and Cassandra had set her efforts to reversing the rite and employing the methods used to train seekers in helping mages to fortify themselves. The Way of the Seeker was now taken by all who wished to become templars. The Order was much smaller now, and their purpose limited to curbing mages who posed a proven danger. 

Grace rubbed her aching thighs and attempted to position herself more comfortably on her horse. They were just emerging from the gently sloping hills that led down to the banks of the mighty Enavuris River, after which the Exalted Plains stretched out before them, a vast stretch of moorland dotted with little villages that were finally beginning to recover after bearing the brunt of the war with Gaspard. Leliana had thought it safest to discuss Fenris’s proposal well away from Celene’s court, so they were headed to Emprise du Lion under the pretense of a spiritual retreat at Suledin’s Keep. It would take them the better part of a week to get there, and it had rained intermittently, turning the already uneven road to mud. 

Grace had up to this point declined Leliana’s offer to ride with her in her carriage, but she was beginning to reconsider. She had adjusted fairly well to riding one-handed, but her right arm was aching mercilessly from holding the reins. Between the bumping of the horse, and the nipper swimming enthusiastically from one side of her belly to the other, and the squelching of her wet boots in the stirrups, and the fact that she didn’t fit into her breeches and so was dressed in voluminous robes that had gotten quite soggy at the hem, Grace was in a world of discomfort. 

When they stopped at the riverbank to let their horses drink, Grace dismounted with Cullen’s assistance, handed over Nutmeg’s reins, and went to seek another mode of transport. The obvious choice was the generous legroom and silk cushions of the Divine’s carriage, but as she approached, Grace caught a glimpse through the window of Leliana speaking softly to Ambassador Montiliyet, their faces so close their foreheads were almost touching. Leliana said something to make Josephine laugh and placed a kiss on her dimpled cheek. They got so little time together these days, Grace did not wish to intrude on their privacy. She moved on to the baggage wagon, where she found Fenris sitting with his back against a sack of clothes and his legs dangling over the edge. He had never ridden a horse in his life, and had no great desire to learn. As far as Fenris was concerned, any creature big enough to kill you with its feet was best left alone. 

“Inquisitor,” Fenris greeted Grace with a respectful nod. 

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

Fenris was surprised, but moved a few bags to make a place for her. 

“Not at all.” He helped pull her up onto the back of the wagon. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the carriage?” 

“I think I prefer to be out in the fresh air.” 

As she said this, Grace had the fleeting thought that a great deal had changed in the past five years. Prior to the Inquisition it would have been silk cushions all the way for her. 

It was still cloudy, but the rain had relented and the gentle breeze felt fresh and mild on her face. The landscape before them was shining like it had been washed clean. Diffused sunlight filtered through the cloud cover and sparkled on the surface of the Enavuris. Grace settled in next to Fenris, leaned back on a roll of blankets, and dangled her feet over the cart’s edge. They took in the majestic view of the rolling green moorland as their caravan spilled down onto the broad stone bridge, recently rebuilt, known as Pont Agur. 

Grace glanced over at her traveling companion. He was staring serenely into the distance, but it had been obvious on the journey that the information they received in Val Royeaux had unsettled him. Varric had warned her that he was a man of few words, but he had hardly said anything at all since they left the city. 

“Celene was a setback, but this is not the end. We’ll simply have to be resourceful. Maker knows when we first set out to defeat Corypheus we had precious few allies, it just meant that we had to be clever… patient.” 

Fenris looked at her. Wise words from one so young, he thought. He knew that what he sought to accomplish was a massive undertaking, that it would require time and careful planning, but after the initial rush of hope he had felt at having been taken seriously, he was frustrated that their progress had taken a turn. And he was frustrated that he hadn’t been able to wreck justice on the pigs selling the very people they were meant to protect to slavers for filthy coin. And Celene, who so callously betrayed her own subjects. He was not the violent man he was when he first came to Kirkwall, but he would have liked nothing more than to rip her vicious heart from her royal chest. But to take such rash action would be to sacrifice his cause and endanger the people who risked much in supporting him. 

“I confess I was discouraged, but you are right, and I thank you for trying to lift my spirits. What about Ferelden? Is there anyone there we could call upon?”

Grace hesitated. “Queen Anora was reluctant to send aid when the fabric of reality itself was threatened. Unless she can see some benefit to herself in this I doubt she’ll want to get involved. The marcher states may prove more fertile ground- I have connections on the Ostwick Council and Varric has offered to return to Kirkwall to drum up support on the home front. Then of course there are the Qunari. But they have their own goals with regard to the Imperium that may not align very comfortably with ours.” 

“Then there is hope yet,” said Fenris. 

“There is always hope,” answered Grace with a smile. 

“So have you thought of name for the little one?” asked Fenris, changing the subject to one of more immediate interest.

“Not yet. Cullen has ideas and I have ideas, and he knows that ultimately I will prevail, but we are still in negotiation. How old is your daughter now?”

“She is nine. It goes by quickly, Inquisitor. Enjoy it.” 

Grace smiled and patted her belly. “I will, when the little blighter finally decides to grace us with their presence. I’m thinking about drawing up an official eviction notice. Though now I rather hope they wait until we arrive at our destination.” 

Fenris laughed. He was impressed by the Inquisitor’s apparent lack of concern. Willow’s birth had been difficult and Hawke had, understandably, been a nervous wreck. They both had. He felt a familiar ache in his chest at the memory. It had been almost a month since he bid farewell to his daughter, and he missed her more every day. He reminded himself that he was doing this for her- that it was his duty to leave her a better world than had been left to him. He would not fail her.


	5. Emprise du Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some decisions are made and the Inquisition welcomes new beginnings

My dear daughter,

I am writing to you from an ancient castle high in the Frostback Mountains that the people here call Suledin’s Keep. We arrived last night. Val Royeaux was interesting, but it is not all it’s made out to be. It doesn’t begin to compare in beauty to our Kirkwall. Someday I will take you there and you can judge for yourself. This new destination, Emprise du Lion, is striking, although it is very cold. There are natural hot springs in the mountains, and wealthy tourists come from all over Orlais to take the waters. At least, now they do. Until recently the springs were the site of a dragon’s nest where not one, but two high dragons had made their home. It was the Inquisitor and her companions who defeated the dragons and <strike>killed them</strike> drove them away. Although it is nearly Cloudreach there is still snow on the ground and the ice on the river is just now beginning to thaw.

I hope this letter finds you well, my child. I trust you are listening to Aveline and Donnic and that you are studying diligently. Please convey my regards to everyone back home. I have included with this letter a few small souvenirs from Orlais that I thought you might enjoy. I am very sorry to have to stay away so long, and I fear it may be longer yet. I look forward to the day when I will be able to return home to you. I love you very much.

Your devoted father,  
Fenris  
…

Dorian stopped at the entrance to the solarium and took a deep breath, swallowing both his pride and his shame, suppressing the urge to turn on his heel and go find somewhere, anywhere, else to be.

Sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling of a large, open room and glittered off the snow covered forest outside. The room was filled with bridsong from beyond the windows, the patter of melting snow and the laughter of countless tiny streams newly freed from the ice. A fire burned in the hearth at the far end of the room, and beside it on a velvet couch sat Fenris with his feet up, deeply absorbed in the pages of a book.

Dorian could just make out the title etched in gold Tavene characters on the cover- the Sonnets of Kandahal. Dorian wiped his sweaty palms on his robe, did his best to collect himself and strode purposefully into the room, taking a seat in an armchair across from Fenris, who glanced up from his book to watch him approach, his face a mask of cool neutrality.

Dorian cleared his throat, gesturing toward the book still in Fenris’s hands.

“Beautiful. Moon over Ekola’s House changed my life when I first read it.”

“Did you want something?” asked Fenris.

“Just to talk.”

“Just to try, for the hundredth time, to dissuade me from my purpose?”

Dorian looked down at the carpet and for a moment neither man spoke. Then Dorian took another deep breath. He began to say something, stopped, closed his eyes and started again.

“Fenris… When I was a boy, my father used to spend hours lecturing me about the virtues of the ideal Imperial citizen. The man who put his people first, who always prioritized the common good over personal gain. This man… this citizen would spend his life cultivating certain qualities; he would be passionate, determined, single minded. Not in pursuit of wealth or pleasure but of justice, righteousness, and the good of his people. He would deny himself comfort and security in order to secure these things for others. He would be fearless in battle, unafraid to die, he would bend the knee to no one and be no man’s sycophant. His stoic exterior would conceal a tender heart, quick to feel compassion for the weak and forgotten.”

Dorian paused to order his thoughts. A line appeared between Fenris’s brows but the elf said nothing. Dorian continued.

“This little speech used to fill me with dismay. I hated hearing him talk like that. It was so intimidating. I mean, what mortal man could possibly attain this ideal state of virtue? Certainly not me. Not then, and not now.”

Dorian took another deep breath, aware that his voice was shaking.

“But here's a funny thing. When I think of what you've been through, and when I consider the person that you are, I start to think that maybe that man does exist. For all that you’ve been made to endure, I don't grieve for you. I wouldn't dare. I grieve for my homeland. I grieve for foolish, backward Tevinter that has denied itself the blessing of such a citizen as you. And I wonder how many other valiant hearts are made to lie sleeping with the sleepers and the slaves.”

Dorian leaned forward and looked at Fenris with such beseeching earnestness it made him wince.

“I want what you want, Fenris. I want every person in Tevinter to be free. I don't want to see the Imperium destroyed, but… transformed. Please, just give me a little time. Let me accomplish our purpose with diplomacy rather than bloodshed. Is Tevinter not your home also?”

Fenris studied the younger man’s face. Up to this point he had felt nothing but disdain for this spoiled son of a magister. Now, he felt almost sorry for him.

“No. It is not. I was born on Saheron, and brought to Minrathous with my mother in chains. My home is Kirkwall and this conversation is finished. We don't want the same thing, Pavus. When I look at Tevinter I see nothing worth salvaging.”

Fenris got up from the couch, collected his book and his cloak, and left Dorian, terribly exposed, alone with his thoughts.  
…  
After Corypheus had been defeated and the red templars driven out, Suledin’s Keep, previously an abandoned ruin, had been rebuilt and converted to a abbey. Gardens were planted with labyrinths for pilgrims to walk, greenhouses erected so that food and medicinal herbs could be grown through the winter, and the drafty rooms of the old castle were converted to cozy living quarters for the brothers and sisters who sought peace in the mountain refuge. Suledin’s Keep had become a place of serenity and healing, and Leliana found there a welcome respite from the relentless intrigue of Val Royeaux. She was an inveterate player of the Great Game, and she couldn’t deny there was a part of her that still savored the thrill of outmaneuvering a rival, but when she had a decision to make she preferred to be as far as possible from the melodrama of the capital, in a place where she could clear her mind and open her heart. This house of welcome was precisely that place.

After they had shared a simple but nourishing meal together in the refectory, Leliana sat alone in the solarium and waited for the others to arrive. Couches and chairs had been arranged in a circle and a fire was blazing brightly in the hearth.

Leliana knelt at a little altar in the corner of the room, lit a stick of fragrant incense, and placed her fingers on the pages of a book that lay open on the altar. She began to read, but as she whispered the familiar words she closed her eyes, reciting the Canticle by heart.

“And the Prophet stood beside Shartan  
And shouted to her host:  
"Behold! Our champion!"  
And gave to him the blade of her own mother  
From her own scabbard, Glandivalis, saying:

"Take this, my champion,  
And free our people forever."  
And the Prophet and the People  
Struck down the mages of the legion  
And claimed the field together.

And before them, empty,  
Outstretched lay the land  
Which led to the gates if Minrathous.”

It was not a verse she had been taught in her time as a lay sister at the Chantry in Lothering. The Canticle of Shartan had, until Leliana’s tenure as Divine, been considered heretical- a dissonant verse. But Leliana had sought out the forbidden text after her encounter with the Shartan’s memory at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and had studied it at length before finally reinstating it as part of the canonical Chant of Light. It was now inscribed on her heart as deeply as the other verses, perhaps more so, and she was acutely aware of the debt that it laid at her feet, to the slaves of Tevinter and to all the elves of Thedas. Without Shartan and his followers, there would be no Chantry, yet time after time they had betrayed his memory. The rift between the Chantry and the elves was steeped in blood and strewn with broken promises. Leliana opened her eyes, bent to kiss the pages of the book, and got up to take her seat.

The first person to arrive was the Inquisitor, slipping into the room as quietly as a cat in spite of the extra weight she carried. She took her place at Leliana’s left hand and wrapped her shawl of soft grey wool around her shoulders.

“Its beautiful here,” she whispered, gazing up through the ceiling at the stars above them.

Leliana smiled. “Thanks to you.”

The next to enter was Fenris. He had tied his long white hair back into a knot at the nape of his neck and dressed in his finest clothes- a black wool jacket that hugged his slim body halfway to his knees and matching black trousers, delicately embroided with silver thread. The suit had been a gift from Hawke. He had worn it on their wedding day. It was what he wore when he needed confidence, and he needed it tonight more than ever. The candlelight cast dancing shadows on his face as he chose a chair across from the Divine and took his seat.

Next came Cullen in a white linen shirt, leather breeches and his sable fur cloak, and Josephine looking solemn, but ready with an encouraging smile for Leliana. She chose a chair and smoothed the skirts of her rose colored winter gown, straightening her back and preparing for a protracted discussion. Cullen settled on the couch beside Grace.

Cassandra strode into the room in her smartly tailored Inquisition uniform and took her place to Leliana’s right. Blackwall had returned to Soldier’s Peak with the other wardens after stopping in Emprise du Lion to collect Kieran, so the boy could spend time with his father and allow Morrigian to focus on the task at hand. Cassandra knew, rationally, that it made sense for Blackwall to go with them, but she wished he could be here for this. His quiet, sturdy certainty would have been a balm to her restless mind. Cassandra crossed and uncrossed her long legs, shifting restlessly in her chair as they waited for the rest of their party.

Varric came next, in his blood red tunic and wide, intricately tooled leather belt, bringing with him the pleasant, subtly spicy smell of his aftershave.

“Andraste, who died?” he said, looking around at all the somber faces in the candlelit room. He sat down beside Fenris, nudging the elf playfully with his elbow.

“Look alive, broody,” he said under his breath. “Everything’s gonna work out.”

Morrigan padded in, elegant in a simple, deep purple robe and, preferring to stand, leaned against the wall behind Leliana.

The last to arrive were the Iron Bull, in a formal Qunari garment consisting of a single, long piece of indigo fabric wrapped around his wait and draped over his shoulders, and Dorian, who simply looked haggard.

The Knight Vigilant had not been able to leave her duties in Val Royeaux, but she had been apprised of the situation by the Divine and had already made her opinion on the matter crystal clear.

“Are we all met?” asked Leliana, looking around the room to make sure everyone was accounted for. She addressed Fenris. “I understand that you wish the Chantry to declare a sixth Exalted March against the Tevinter Imperium with the objective of compelling them to free their slaves. Is this correct?”

Fenris nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness.”

“You are all here because I trust and value your judgment. I would like to give each of you the opportunity to speak and tell me what you believe should be done. Cassandra, please begin.”

“It is our moral duty to assist the slaves of Tevinter. There is no excuse for people to be bought and sold like property. It has to end, and if that means war, I believe it is justified. I have nothing more to say.”

“Morrigan, speak.”

“Once I would have called this madness. I would have said that we cannot make war on a people simply because we disagree with how they conduct their business. But… Mythal has shown me what these people suffer. She burns for them, and consequently, so do I. But I do not know if it is wise to make war on the Imperium. They are isolated, it is true, but there is a reason their Empire has stood for a thousand years. We have but a handful of soldiers. Without a powerful ally, this is a fool’s errand.”

Cullen spoke up, unprompted. “Exalted Marches in the past have relied on raising an army from the people, much like we did in the war against Corypheaus. We may be able to persuade a great many to join us, but it is true that they will be untrained, and whether an army of the faithful can stand against the Imperial Legion I really couldn’t say. The Venatori and the Red Templars were formidable, but their numbers were relatively few.”

“And the royals may not be pleased to see us recruit so many of their subjects,” Josephine broke in. “They were nervous when we started gathering people to us the first time. If once again we start diverting resources… I do not know if they will tolerate it. This is especially true of Celene now that we know she… has business with the Imperium. We cannot afford to cross her.”

Cassandra tried to interject but Josephine stopped her.

“I was not finished.” Josephine pursed her lips, looking deadly serious. “I think there is a difference between making war on a band of dangerous cultists and setting an army of crusaders loose on a civilian population. We are so worried about whether we can stand against the Imperial Legion, but what if we can? What then? The common people in the South have always regarded Tevinters as the enemy, a nation of dangerous, godless heathens. How will we keep our people under control? Imperial citizens will fight back to defend their homes. Your Holiness, Inquisitor… I fear that whether we prevail or not, either way there will be a slaughter.”

“Look,” said Varric, “we don’t need Celene. Or Anora, for that matter. They won’t help us. But Nevarra, Antiva, the Marches… we’re the ones closest to the Imperium. We’re the ones they raid when they don’t feel like going all the way to Val Royeaux for slaves. There’s also the Qunari. They’re unpredictable, but they’ve been wanting to stick it to the Imperium since time immemorial.”

Varric paused, frowning. “But… the Ambassador has a point,” he conceded reluctantly. “The magisters, they can all go straight to Black City and the Dread Wolf take them, but the others… normal people just trying to get by…” Varric glanced guiltily at Fenris, “I don’t know that they’ll be too thrilled about being invaded, and they don’t deserve to die for that. I saw what the Arishok did to Kirkwall, I was there. He said he did it because we were corrupt, and he was right. But he killed a hell of a lot of people trying to reform us.”

Bull rubbed his beard. “Take it from a man who spent ten years on Seheron- an occupying army is never welcome, and the lines between soldier and civilian will quickly become meaningless when you have farmers and housewives doing whatever they can to drive you out. As for allying with the Qunari- the Arishok is honorable. If you make a deal with him he’ll stick to it. But don’t think for a minute that the Qunari can be controlled. If you want them as allies, you’ll have to offer them something of value.”

“The idea was never to occupy Tevinter,” interjected Grace, “only to pressure them into releasing their slaves. We have no desire to become rulers of the Imperium.”

“Fenris,” asked Bull, “do you have a plan for where these people will go once they’re free?”

Fenris shook his head. “I had not gotten that far yet.”

“The Qun will welcome them, but that’s not for everyone.”

Leliana looked thoughtful. “Funny Varric should mention the Dread Wolf. I’ve been thinking about him myself. Has Solas been in contact with you, Inquisitor? He can hardly be considered reliable, but he does have power, and this objective may interest him.”

Grace rubbed her forehead- the very thought of attempting to work with Solas again gave her a headache.

“Yes, and I already broached the subject with him. He is not inclined to help. He is still trying to decide whether he wants to destroy the fabric of reality and kill us all.”

“Is he still on about that?” asked Leliana.

Grace nodded ruefully.

“Wait, what?” asked Fenris, looking from Grace to Leliana, suddenly concerned.

“Remind me to explain it another time,” said Grace.

“Dorian,” said Leliana, fixing her penetrating gaze on him. “You’ve been awfully quiet. I know that you are not without an opinion on this matter.”

Dorian bit his lip. He had been thinking, running it over and over in his head, trying to work it out.

“Did you know… that only one out of every ten Imperial citizens owns slaves?” he asked, glancing around the circle. “Slaves are expensive, only the wealthy can afford them. And for every slave owning citizen in the Imperium, there are three slaves. Oh, we have long been aware of the danger in that, and that is why any sign of insurrection is met with such extreme brutality. The magisters work very hard to convince the liberati, the free peasants and laborers that they have a common interest, but its a web of lies, and a precariously thin one. Add to this the number of nobles who have begun to see slavery as passe, a barrier to good relations with the rest of Thedas, and you have a house of cards ready to topple. All they need is a push.”

“You think they will do this themselves?” asked Leliana, skeptical.

“With help.”

Fenris’s eyes gleamed dangerously in the candlelight. “So why haven’t they done it yet?”

“Because they do need help. The slaves need someone to rally around, they need organization and support. And the abolitionists need someone who doesn’t care that they’ll almost certainly be assassinated to make a stand in the Imperial Senate.”

“Are you volunteering?” Fenris asked, the challenge in his voice as sharp as a knife’s edge.

Dorian simply nodded, his face solemn and resolute.

“Give me a year. I will have abolition passed in the Imperial Senate or I will die trying.”

“And if you fail?” asked Fenris.

“That’s where you step in. While I am scrounging for political favor and dodging assassin’s blades, you will be secretly arming an underground network of slaves, spreading gaatlock on the situation, making sure that once it finally blows it will not be easily contained. You will lead an uprising with all the resources of the Inquisition at your disposal.”

An electric silence crackled in the air as Fenris and the assembled members of the Inquisition considered Dorian’s proposal.

“Fenris,” Grace asked, “is this acceptable to you?”

Fenris nodded slowly. It was not what he initially had in mind, but it was damn well better than the nothing he came here with.

“This is acceptable.”

“Then you and Dorian will begin making preparations for your journey to Minrathous,” said Leliana, and with that, a great undertaking had begun.

It would not be the night’s only beginning.  
…

It was late when the convocation finally dispersed. Leliana had called over one of her shadowy acolytes, who brought forth a silver goblet which they all took turns drinking from to cement their unity of purpose. It was filled with a delicious, full-bodied Orlesian red.

“Not quite as dramatic as a chalice of tainted blood, but appropriately symbolic,” Leliana said with a smile.

Dorian turned down the east corridor toward his quarters, but paused when he heard footsteps behind him in the dark. He turned to see the towering silhouette of the Iron Bull, barely visible in the dim light of the candles that flickered along the wall. Dorian was always amazed at how such a massive person was able to move with such stealth and grace. He had barely heard him, it would be more accurate to say that Dorian had felt the Qunari’s presence.

“Bull? Aren’t your quarters the other way?”

Bull didn’t answer. Dorian could see that his chest was heaving, and he had a strange expression, like he was under some sort of spell. Dorian approached him, examining his face, trying to ascertain if something was wrong. Bull stood very still, as in a trance, with a feverish light in his eye as he gazed at Dorian. Dorian reached up to feel Bull’s forehead- he could feel the heat coming off him before they even touched, but Bull grabbed Dorian’s hand and thrust it against his bare chest. Dorian could feel his heart beating like it would break his ribs.

“Bull?” asked Dorian softly.

“Kadan,” Bull answered, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Dorian stared up at him for a moment, baffled, but instead of questioning his friend as to the meaning of this strange reverie, he began running his fingers through Bull’s beard and the waves of dark hair he had let grow long. He traced the scars on Bull’s face and powerful shoulders, reflecting back the fire in Bull’s eye. Dorian stood on his toes and leaned in close enough to smell the wine on Bull’s lips, and in an instant the Qunari’s arms encircled him, at once forceful and tender. Bull kissed him hard before pulling away and placing his hands on either side of Dorian’s face.

“Let me stay?”

In answer, Dorian met his lips again, kissing him deeply. Bull lifted Dorian as if he weighed no more than a leaf, and Dorian instinctively wrapped his legs around Bull’s waist. Off they went to Dorian’s room, and the others were lucky the heat of their passion didn’t leave Suledin’s Keep in ashes by the morning.  
…

Away on the other side of the castle Grace and Cullen lay side by side on their big feather bed listening to the tap tap tap of melting snow falling on the skylight above them.

Cullen sighed deeply and laced his fingers through Grace’s, stroking her hand idly with his thumb.

“Well I don’t think I could sleep after all that, could you?”

“No, I don’t believe I could.”

Grace rolled awkwardly onto her side, propping herself up on her good elbow to look at Cullen. “Maybe I’m getting to old for all this excitement.”

“You’re getting too old?” Cullen scoffed, incredulous. Grace ran her fingers through his disheveled curls, noting a few more silver strands had appeared around his temples.

“Hmmm… alright. Allow me to posit: Samson, Gaspard, Teryn Loghain.”

Cullen wrinkled up his nose. “Grim options. Obviously I’d have to kill Samson, there’s too much history there. Gaspard’s not a bad looking fellow, so I suppose I could stand an evening of his company… and that leaves me the late ex-regent for a loving husband. He did terrible things, Loghain, but he was once a man worthy of respect.”

“Would that make you the Queen Mother?”

“See, there’s another benefit, I’m sure Anora would feel obligated to provide for me. Right, let’s see… for your consideration: Since Anora has already been brought up- Her Majesty, Countess Lucienne, or… Maker, I’m going straight to the Black City… Mother Giselle.”

“I’m relieved- I thought for sure you’d throw Celene into the mix.”

“No, that would be in poor taste.”

All of a sudden Grace felt a sharp pang in her belly. Cullen, seeing her look of surprise, went very still.

“Grace? Are you alright?”

She nodded slowly. “I think you had better get Morrigan.”

Cullen threw on a shirt and breeches and attempted a brisk, dignified walk down the corridor to Morrigan’s quarters before breaking into a full-on run. He found the mage still awake, sitting up in bed with a book in her lap. Morrigan knew simply by his expression what the matter was, and well accustomed to this kind of midnight call from the days when she used to help the Chasind women deliver, she shrugged a robe over her nightdress, tied back her hair, and followed Cullen back down the corridor to where the Inquisitor was waiting.

Grace was seated calmly on the edge of the bed, enjoying a short reprieve before the next contraction.

“Well well, Inquisitor. I suppose it is time.”

Grace smiled wryly. “I suppose it is.”

“Can you stand?”

Grace nodded. Nonetheless, Cullen offered his arm to anchor her. Morrigan led them to the room they had prepared for this purpose, spacious and clean, equipped with a bed made with fresh linen and all of Morrigan’s herbs arranged neatly on a table. Cullen set about lighting a fire in the hearth. Grace eased down on to the bed and wrapped herself in a big down blanket, curling up into a ball as another wave of pain hit her.

“How are you doing?” asked Morrigan. Grace found her low voice, so calm and matter-of-fact, indescribably comforting.

“Good,” she answered, a bit strained.

“Cullen, go wake someone who can fetch us water,” ordered Morrigan.

Cullen obediently left for the dormitory where the residents of the abbey slept.

Morrigan sat down on the bed next to Grace, who had cocooned herself in the comforter with only her face peaking out.

“So what am I in for, really?” she asked the older woman.

Morrigan smiled.

“Everyone is different, Inquisitor. But I have no doubt, you’ll do fine. Trust yourself. Your body knows what to do. And if anything goes wrong, Adan is just down at the inn.”

Adan had traveled all the way from Skyhold to be on call in case Grace went into labor at Suledin’s Keep. Before she left, he had taken her by the shoulders and said, “You dragged my sorry ass from a burning building. If you think I’d let anything bad happen to you, you’re a damned fool.” Grace believed him.

The fire was burning brightly by the time Cullen returned with two lay sisters and a large jug of water. He immediately set about filling a kettle and placing it over the fire to boil. Grace could see by the lines on his face that Cullen was anxious, but like the good soldier he was, he tried not to show it, instead choosing to cope by quietly obeying Morrigan’s orders and doing everything he could to make himself useful.

Once the room had warmed up, Grace emerged from under the duvet just as another wave washed over her, causing her to catch her breath. She sat up, doubled over and tried to breathe deeply as Morrigan instructed.

“I want to move,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“Then get up and move, pet. Do what you feel like doing.”

Cullen helped Grace to her feet, but she shrugged away from him, feeling a desperate need for space, and to not be hindered. She began to pace around the room, bracing for another blow. After a few minutes of this she made her way back to Cullen, allowing him to take her in his arms and ease her back onto the bed. He sat down next to her and she turned around and leaned back in his arms. He wiped the sweat from her brow with a fresh cloth.

“Cullen?” she asked. “Can you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“There’s incense in our room. Bring it, and say a verse for me and the babe.”

Cullen brushed her damp hair back and kissed her brow before releasing her to carry out her instruction. While he was gone, Morrigan ran her hands lightly over Grace’s back, reminding her to breathe.

Cullen returned, placed the lit incense on the altar and began softly reciting the Canticle of Trials. Grace cried out. Beyond the heavy closed door, footsteps and whispers could be heard, most of the castle was now awake.

By the time Patrik Rutherford came into the world Cullen had said the Trials three times over and all the candles had burned down to their stubs and been replaced. The first streaks of pearl grey light were appearing in the sky outside. Grace looked down at his red little face. They were both crying, but Grace was laughing through her tears.

“Hello, you,” she whispered to the distraught little creature.

The birth itself had been painful, and bloody, but no more painful than the anchor had been when it destabilized. Cullen sat down in the bed beside them and stroked his son’s silky little head.

The next day or so was a haze of half-conscious feedings as Grace drifted in and out of sleep. At some point, she noticed she was back in her room and a cradle had appeared at her bedside, intricately carved with leaves and lucky symbols to ward off evil spirits. Grace wondered sleepily if that was what Blackwall had been hiding under a sheet of canvas the last time he passed through Skyhold. She wondered how it had found its way to Suledin’s Keep.

Some time later she woke briefly with the scent of fresh gardenias in her nose and found Leliana sitting by her bedside singing softly as she cradled little Patrik. When she saw Grace’s eyes flutter open she took her hand. Leliana’s fingers were cool and soft and Grace drifted back to sleep to the sweet music of the Divine’s lullaby.

Grace finally sat fully upright what seemed like weeks later, though it was perhaps thirty hours, and felt a mighty rumble in her stomach. Fortunately, as if summoned by magic, Cullen appeached at the door with a tray laden with meat and potato pastries in gravy. Grace ate greedily while the baby slept. He opened his big, curious eyes just as she finished cleaning her plate. She fed him, handed him off to his father, and padded off to the washroom, where someone had been thoughtful enough to draw and heat a bath in the large copper tub. Grace released a sigh of pleasure as she slipped under the water. Now clean, she combed and braided her hair, dressed herself in a robe of soft sea green wool over a silk shift, kissed Cullen, and let him help her wrap a long, wide bolt of cloth around her chest to make a sling for Patrik.

Grace stepped into the refectory with Cullen at her side just as everyone was finishing the midday meal. A hush fell over the hall when she appeared. The Inquisitor’s face broke into a wide smile.

“I’ll be at the pub for the foreseeable future if anyone cares to join me.”

With that, the hall erupted in a raucous cheer.  
…

Fenris donned his heavy cloak and boots in preparation for the walk down the mountain into town where he was to meet Dorian to begin planning their journey to Minrathous and discussing the details of what they would actually do once they arrived. The new boots, which he had bought specifically for his journey to Skyhold, were still stiff and rubbing his ankles in a most disagreeable manner. Hawke had tried tirelessly throughout their life together, without much success, to impress upon him the importance of wearing shoes, arguing that while it was one thing to go barefoot on the meticulously swept marble streets of Minrathous, to do so in the fetid alleyways of Kirkwall, where the citizens had a nasty habit of emptying their chamberpots directly into the street, was simply unhygienic. But he had yet to contract any of the parasites Hawke had described to him in such lurid detail, and Kirkwall was still just temperate enough that he could get away with it. That was not the case up here in the mountains, so he suffered through the inevitable blisters. On the upside, he had to admit that the black leather knee high boots did look rather smart.

He could hear the baby crying vigorously in the distance as he collected his things and fastened his belt, and the familiar sound made him smile. During the year or so his life was ruled by that sound he had never once imagined that he would miss it the way he did. He was headed out the door, but as he descended the stairs into the foyer he saw the Commander pacing back and forth with his new son howling in his arms, looking disheveled and slightly unhinged.

Cullen spotted Fenris coming down the stairs and made a bee-line for him.

“Thank the Maker, you’re just the man I was looking for.”

“Oh?” asked Fenris, a bit taken aback. “What can I do for you, Cullen?”

Cullen had a haunted look in his eye, and he lowered his voice a bit, embarrassed.

“Look, Fenris… I need your help. I know what the matter is, the boy is wet and I must change him… only…” he lowered his voice even further, leaning toward Fenris confidentially. “The last time I tried it went very badly for me and I could use some guidance. Your expertise in this matter would be much appreciated.”

“I see,” replied Fenris. “What happened?”

Cullen grimaced, the very recollection traumatic. “He… urinated. Everywhere. As soon as I removed the nappie. It was like he knew. It went on me… on the floor… just everywhere.”

Fenris nodded sympathetically. “It is not such a problem with daughters, but even so, these things do happen. I would be happy to assist.”

Cullen led Fenris back upstairs to the bathing room, where a little table had been set up and stocked with clean nappies, a basin, and soft flannel rags.

“Did you not have younger siblings growing up?” Fenris asked. A memory flickered faintly in his mind of a little russet haired girl that he had carried everywhere and called his dolly. He was only five years old when his sister was born, but their mother was given no respite from her work and it had fallen to him to care for her- to keep her clean and feed her with a cloth soaked in milk and sing her to sleep and comfort her when she cried.

“Yes, but I’m only a year older than Mia, and by the time Nell came along I had already begun my templar training.”

Fenris took Patrik from his father and set him down gently on the table.

“Here, you see you use the old nappie as a sort of sheild. Never let your guard down, that’s when they’ll get you.”

“Of course… it’s so simple. Maker, what is wrong with me? I’m such a fool.”

“You’re sleep deprived. It clouds the mind.”

Fenris patiently walked Cullen through the process of properly cleaning and changing the infant.

Patrik started to sqaul when Cullen approached him with the wet cloth, and the new father recoiled as if bitten.

“What’s wrong, what have I done?”

“Nothing,” Fenris answered. “The cloth is cold, it disturbs them. Reasonable, I think, you wouldn’t like it either. But it is a necessary evil. Next time, if you warm the water, he may be more amenable.”

Now clean and re-dressed, the infant grew calm and looked up at the two men with large, curious eyes.

“May I?” asked Fenris.

“Of course,” said Cullen, handing him the baby.

Fenris took the child in his arms and held him against his chest, humming softly and rubbing his little back.

“He’s a fine little boy. You and the Inquisitor should be proud.”

Cullen smiled broadly, joy radiating through the exhaustion on his face. “Thank you. We are. Very proud indeed.”

Glancing out the window, Fenris saw that the sun had almost risen to its zenith in the sky and that he late for his meeting with Dorian.

“Excuse me, Cullen, I must go.”

Cullen thanked him profusely and Fenris set off down the narrow path that led down the mountain from Suledin’s Keep into the little town of Sarnia.

It was chilly, but the snow was melting and the sun shone pleasantly on his face. The air was crystal clear and the view from the mountain path of the Elfsblood River breathtaking.

He genuinely hoped he hadn’t kept Dorian waiting. He couldn’t say his feelings toward the mage were warm, but Dorian’s willingness to put himself on the line had made an impression on him, and he felt it was worth trying to show some respect, particularly since it seemed they would be spending a great deal of time together from here on out.

Fenris arrived in the little town at the base of the mountain and headed for the inn, Le Beouf et Boisson. He breathed a sigh of relief as he opened the door and the warmth of a blazing hearth-fire instantly enfolded him. Fenris took off his black leather gloves and rubbed his hands together to get the blood flowing back to his fingers as he scanned the rustic dining room for Dorian, quickly spotting him camped at a table in the corner surrounded by papers. Dorian was scribbling emphatically with an elegant silver pen, pausing every few words to dip it in a pot of ink. Fenris noticed that he had absentmindedly smeared a streak of ink across his cheek. Dorian had been so engrossed in whatever he was writing, evidently a letter, that he didn’t even mark the elf’s approach. Fenris cleared his throat politely. Dorian looked up, momentarily dazed.

“Fenris, well met.”

Fenris pulled out a chair and sat down. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“Not at all. I had plenty here to keep me busy. I was just penning a reply to my father… The coffee here isn’t half bad, of course it’s watery like all southern coffee… have you eaten?”

“Er, no, not yet.”

Dorian caught the attention of the innkeep and ordered two coffees as well as a spread of toast, jam, and a round of creamy, mild orlesian cheese.

“I hope you don’t mind, Bull should be here any minute. His man Cremissius arrived early this morning from Skyhold, he’s expressed an interest in coming with us to Minrathous.”

“Oh?” asked Fenris. “Cremissius… is he Tevinter?”

“He is. A veteran of the Legion. A skilled warrior and an all around stand-up chap. Ah, speaking of…”

Dorian stood to greet the Iron Bull, who had just entered the inn followed by a fresh-faced man of about thirty with tawny skin and close-cropped dark brown hair.

Fenris raised an eyebrow as he watched the Qunari, imposing in his winter habit of leather and fur, cup Dorian’s face tenderly in his hand, wiping away the smear of ink. The gesture wasn’t lost on Bull’s young companion either, who met Fenris’s eyes with a baffled look.

“Sehedon, Fenris,” Bull said, clapping him hard on the back. “Allow me to introduce my esteemed associate, Cremissius Aclassi.”

The young man responded with a broad, friendly smile, grasping Fenris’s hand firmly.

“Well met, Cremissius.”

“Please, call me Krem.”

The four men settled in around the table, moving aside Dorian’s papers as the innkeeper served their food.

“Dorian tells me you were a legionnaire, how did you come to join the Inquisition?” asked Fenris.

“I’m afraid it’s a long story, but one I’d be happy to tell you another time over a drink or two or ten,” Krem answered amiably.

“I sent word to Krem as soon as we had a plan. I knew he’d want a part in this.”

“Damn right I do. My own father sold himself to pay our family’s debts. If you’re to be putting a stop to all that, I want to go with you. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“I would warn you that it will be dangerous, but something tells me you already know that,” Fenris observed. He liked the lad already.

“I’m glad,” said Dorian, raising his coffee cup to Krem in a gesture of salute. “It will be good to have you. Since that’s settled…” Dorian took a document out of his stack of papers and looked at Fenris. “I have some news regarding the matter we had previously discussed.” Dorian knit his brow. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than I had anticipated.”

“Why am I not surprised,” said Fenris wryly.

He and Dorian had quickly realized that there was no way Fenris would be able to move freely in the Imperium as a fugitive slave, and with his distinctive markings he would be damn near impossible to disguise. Dorian had been investigating the possibility of officially securing his freedom, but Fenris did not have high hopes for this.

“Well, wait just a minute. As I thought, because Danarius died on foreign soil, apparently in some sort of bar fight, and with no heirs to his estate, you became a ward of the Archon. Now, as a ward of the Archon, any magister should have been able to either purchase you or purchase your freedom-”

“Lovely,” Krem interjected with a grimace.

“Right, well, it’s not great but it would have enabled me to buy your freedom, which would have put us in the clear…”

“But?” asked Fenris.

“Well, it’s not the worst problem to have, but it turns out someone beat me to it. Quite some time ago, in fact. You, Fenris, are legally a free Imperial citizen.”

“What?” asked Fenris, in utter disbelief. “Who?”

Dorian shook his head. “The name is Vospica. I knew a Vospicus in Minrathous, but he was a bachelor, at least he was then. Magister Varania Vospica- does that name mean anything to you?”

The color had gone out of Fenris’s face. He took the document from Dorian and stared at the delicate signature on the page. Mgst. Varania Vospica.

“Do you know her?” Dorian asked.

Fenris didn’t answer.


End file.
